Faire and Square
by kkolmakov
Summary: Modern Hobbit AU where men with Tolkien names wear kilts and are not afraid to use them! When you go to a Renaissance faire, you can always find something to your liking there. Except how to choose between two brothers: Frerin, charming and cheeky, and Thorin, dark and predictably brooding? {Companion piece to fics by Wynni and RagdollPrincess}
1. Humpty Numpty

**A/N: This fic is a companion piece to glorious ****Wynni****'s **_**All's Faire in Love and War**_**. Check out her story to better understand what's happening here! Her OC, Bri is a wonderful creation and a perfect match for a certain blonde heir of Durin :D**

**So, no throwing vegetables at me for Thorin suddenly having a wee bit of competition :P Totally Wynni's idea! :D It was her praising of a certain Scot in her side of this story that spurred this fic and **_**Tender Wound**_** for that matter****.**

**A/N#2: As in all the latest creations of mine Frerin, Thorin's younger brother, following Tumblr tradition, is to look like ****Gerard Butler**** from **_**Beowulf & Grendel**_**. Is it hot here or you are feeling it too? ;)**

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><p>Wren is cheerfully skipping after Bri and Reese. She is properly enjoying this new brill idea of Bri's! Wren might have grown up in Wakefield, where "real" Robin Hood "really" lived, but she has never been to anything remotely medieval oriented. And now a Renaissance Faire! With an 'e' at the end!<p>

It is ace, and she is giggling to herself thinking of Jensen Ackles in a blonde wig. Septic peeps are bonkers, but they know how to throw a do! And my oh my, how she approves of bulging muscles, large swords and that bloke over there who has a falcon on his arm! Blimey, Wren is rather certain that all those chicks flocking around him are hardly aspiring ornithologists. One of them asks something about the little cute hat that the bird is wearing, but Wren can wager her best bagua cane all those chicks are there for his upper arms. Wren has broken up with her boyfriend six months ago, she is in dire need for some of that very… ornithology.

She was initially mildly terrified by Bri's enthusiasm over faux medieval set-up, but now Wren is wearing a Robin Hood clobber and a bloke just passed her on stilts. She is twirling on her heels and her head might screw off her neck since she is properly trying not to miss owt. She is also chewing on a candied apple, and even her healthy lifestyle promoting part is at peace. Oh, Wren hasn't had that much fun in donkey's years.

Bri is gesturing and pointing and explaining, and Wren catches up with her not a miss a thing. And then they walk over a hill, and here is the Mountain Thunder Armoury. Wren stuffs the last piece of her apple into her mouth, quickly shakes off the crumbs from the mince pie she gobbled up before it off her chest and fixes the Robin Hood hat on her curls. Show time!

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><p>OK, it seems to require a bit of clarification. The Mountain Thunder Armoury is a large wooden frame tent and is supposedly occupied by the members of the band they have seen earlier on the stage. Wren is so tone deaf it could have been samba for all she cares, but… Four men are not supposed to be allowed to look that fit at the same time. It is much easier to digest if only the front man is a hottie. Or the drummer. Well, there is no drummer in this band, but you get the picture. There are four of them, two uncles and new nephews, and Wren has daddy issues, which means she disregards nephews from the start and concentrates on the older blokes. But there are two of them! And they are brothers! And there is some magic in this gene pool!<p>

Wren has a problem. And it is of amore nature. It has little to do with her heart of course, more with the fanny regions, but what a palava it is! While everyone was dancing earlier near the stage, she got a whole bunch of winks from the younger uncle, and no, she is not dischuffed about it. He is tall, glorious thenar muscles, a soft shirt was hugging external oblique, and his exceptionally well formed biceps femoris. What? Oh, Wren is a zumba instructor, she knows muscles. But basically the arse is to die for, and he has very toned stomach. And she suspects chest hair, his sternum was peeking in the collar of the shirt. The long wavy hair is golden brown and the eyes are green, and green eyed blokes are Wren's bane. Yum. While the members of the audience were dragged into what Bri called a tangle brawl, meaning they were all holding hands, and dancing and tangling, and one of the nephews led all this madness, she would pass the stage and the golden haired uncle would make some vague gestures most likely meaning 'come find me' and 'give me your number.' Aye, with your tekul bahooky, nice tae meit ye! Yuck, she is a worse faux Highlander than Chris Lambert. Never saying this again.

The palava is caused by the fact that the older uncle is "stoats right in through the front door, gallus as anythin." Bugger, she has just decided to stop impersonating Craig Ferguson. But the view of the dark haired hardchaw makes her want to quote all bad parodies on Scottish accent at the same time. He has a dark mane of waves, with silver hiding in them, and for her fanny a silver fox is like a Guinness storehouse for a drunkard. He is taller than his brother, and Wren never believed her Mum who would say "sometimes less is better." He is also a bit of a grouch, and that is like a red cloth for a bull for any chick. Everyone wants to bite into a custard tart and even though the exterior is all dry and hard, everyone wants to find the sweet, soft filling inside. And he is watching her. Wren might be disgustingly skinny, but she knows what to do with the chicken thighs she was given. Thank you, St. Brigid, and yes, it is sarcasm! Wren is certain that these were not the hips her fierce ancestors gave birth with to all those warriors. At least the bum is decent, and Wren makes full use of it. The older uncle, and Wren might be willing to convert from her green eye obsession, keeps his icy blue eyes on her, stoically keeping them above her neck. Mostly. He gets additional points for trying really, really hard.

Unlike his brother's open ogling, who is sunny and flirty, and such cheekiness is often forgiven, the Dark and Brooding is intense. By the way, for an Irish person, which Wren partially is, well, her Maimeo is, brooding means he is about to lay an egg. Wren giggles and follows Bri into the tent. They both will be there, and the thought tickles Wren's nerves.

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><p>Inside the tent is ace. There are shelves and tables with their merchandise, and deeper inside there is a forge, and that is a bloody giant hammer! And by hammer Wren means… a hammer. The older Uncle, and Wren hasn't quite sussed their names when they were introduced on the stage, is pulling tools out of a basket. Wren really wants to look at the rings and bracelets on the nearest stands, but the view of his muscular back is dragging her inside as if on a rope. Considering she is staring at his latissimus dorsi, deltoid and trapezius. His back, his wide, perfect, bare back! And a giant black tattoo on the left shoulder. Some round thingie, that looks like a Viking shield, and yes, Wren watched that show on History Channel, with a tree in the center. He has just dragged off his white pirate shirt he had on during the performance and is pulling on a worn out dark blue one, and she is close to conking out. He is putting on a leather apron, Wren bakes, she'd protect herself from heat and fire as well, and then he turns and their eyes meet. Bugger. She makes a random spasmodic step aside and drops her eyes down at the first table that is under her nose.<p>

She is staring at some knifey things, daggers perhaps, with unseeing eyes when the honey like voice of the younger uncle pours into her ear.

"Now there's a lass after me own heart." There is a bit of rasp, there is the brogue, and a lot of shag mixed into this voice, and it is always easier to flirt with wolves because you know they are not serious. Wren throws him a side glance, she knows she has decent lashes, and he is already staring at her lips.

"Am I now?" He is smiling to her widely, and oh my… Those are very, very sexy lips. Wren isn't much into them actually, hardly notices them, but he has a very masculine bottom lip, and the beard looks deliciously soft! Such a vibrant brown colour too, like buckwheat honey or a nice pint of Kilkenny.

"Most lasses that come in here don't make it past the pretty gewgaws on the front tables, but you three walked right past them for the sharp and pointies over here." Wren gives him a smug smile, deciding to pass the mentioning of how much she wants to look at every single ring in there. And bracelets. Wren loves silver jewellery, she has a large chest of it, brought from all her travels, several Afghan necklaces, Celtic rings from visiting family, whole bunch of stuff from India, cuffs and anklets, and anything and everything. She is not wearing anything today, she had a class in the morning, before she got accosted by Bri and turned into a Robin Hoodette in Bri's words. So, one can say she is projecting a distorted image of herself at the mo. So maybe he thinks she is 'a lass after his own heart,' but alas, my kilted hottie, you are in for a disappointment.

Suddenly he makes a low graceful bow, and seriously, the way his scapulas move makes her slightly disoriented. And then he presents her with a purple flower. She benevolently picks it up and sticks it in her hair above her ear. He picks up her hand and presses it to his lips. And then slowly lifts his eyes, his warm breath still tickling her knuckles, and damn his eyes, such a colour! And the lashes, fluffy and thick, most chicks would die of envy! There are lovely crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and she smiles to him. They both understand they are playing the game, and it's so much fun that she makes a silly curtsey. It is probably done somehow differently, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Frerin Durinson, nice tae meit ye!" His Scottish accent is suddenly exaggerated, and she cocks one eyebrow sarcastically.

"Wren Leary, at your service," she might be rolling her Irish r's now, and he chuckles. To finish him up she adds, "Tá áthas orm buaileadh leat."

"Should have guessed, with this bonny hair," he is smiling, and then licks his bottom lip. Oh jaysus. "So, you are not a Tolkien fan I reckon?" She looks at him in confusion. She saw posters around cinemas, but the connection escapes her. He is chuckling.

"Sorry?"

"You are wearing a proper professionally tailored clobber, it has been worn, and the boots are real leather, so you are not a noob, but I expected a gibe on the name." Oh right, Frerin… And indeed, what in the name of Rassilon is it even?

"The clothes are my friend's, Bri," Wren points behind her with her eyes, and he quickly looks at Bri. There is a spark of very male approval in the green irises, Wren agrees with him, Bri is a fine thing. "That's my first faire. I am a faire virgin." There is one rule for cheesy remarks. Deliver them with confidence. Wren curls one corner of her lips, and his eyes sparkle. Whack to ye, Wrennie, my girl! He walks around her, obviously checking out the arse, and she throws him a look from under the lashes and sideways. "So what is it about the name?"

"All my kin have old Norse names, from Völuspá, an Icelandic poem of the Poetic Edda, and that's where Tolkien took all his names, so aye, we are taken a lot of piss out." Oh, that Wren can relate to.

"I was named after a bird," she offers as a consolation.

"You were named after the bird that the Druids considered a bird of prophecy and, thanks to an early fable, it has also been known as King of the Birds, an elected ruler of aviary world. There is an opinion that 'wren' is of the same root as the Norse word for 'ruler.'" Wren feels a dire need to pick up her jaw from the floor. What?! He is in front of her again and leans in closer to her face. There is faint smell of myrtle coming from his skin, and her eyes widen. "Could I have your number, fair maiden?" And a pun based on her earlier daft line on her 'faire virginity,' and his eyes are green, oh sod it!

"Give me yours, I'll text you." He nods and grins from ear to ear. "You can just tell it to me, I'll remember." She has a photographic memory, but his face drops. Oh, he thinks she is gently flipping him off. But wolf or not, he is considerate, so he gives her the digits, but his tone is flat. She will not be able to forget them even if she tried, sodding memory, but she is not his Mum to reassure him. She will text, because seriously, wow! And the noggin isn't empty! And the trapezius muscles!

He sees his nephews on the lawn behind the tent and excuses himself. He rushes out, yelling something, they are probably trying to end each other in there, or chipping their blades, or whatever other crime there is there against swording laws, and Wren is left alone in the tent. Well, not exactly alone. There is measured banging of a large tool at the background. All puns intended, and gosh, those are magnificent biceps!


	2. It's raining, It's Thorin

**A/N: Giant 'thank-you' to ****Wynni ****for inspiring me and helping out with this chapter. Since I am fully ignorant in the whole Renaissance Faire thing :) Check out her fic **_**All's Faire in Love and War **_**that has actually started all this madness and will give you yet another look at what is going on here :)**

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><p>Now Wren can finally look at every single ring, and chain, and pendant, and cross, and yum! Very nicely made. She is standing above a table where some pins are displayed on tartan, and then there a low voice, and seriously, that should be bottled and sold for a thousand quid per ounce, and no more volume than this, otherwise OD and kaputt! The accent is weaker than in his brother's but just the right amount to make Wren's reproductive organs rejoice.<p>

"Anything to your liking?" She jumps up and stares in the older uncle's blue eyes. He is standing behind the table, and how do they sneak up like that? That must be the scouting skills or whatever they do here. Probably run in the forest and catch a deer with bare hands. Wren shortly wonders if she has overdosed on testosterone floating in the air. But she can clearly imagine this massive body dashing between trees, kilt fluttering in the wind, oh no, not going there… Jaysus. Why is it so hot in this bloody tent?

"Um… I like this one," she points at a ring with traditional Highland interlace and thistle blooms. Although the pattern is common, this one has some strange irregularity to it, and it just makes it… interesting. He picks it up and stretches his palm to her.

"I've panned this one."

OK, A. When he talks in this voice she is not using the often mentioned 10% of her brain. Her fanny is doing all the thinking, which means no meaning reaches her poor squawking brain. B. What does 'pan' mean? And C. He made them?! She quickly looks at his hand. While his brother has wide palms and very masculine hands, perfect for a sword and groping her arse, not thinking about it right now, Wrennie, the dark and egg-laying has longer fingers, and although it's still a very macho hand it's more artistic, probably because of the elegant wrists.

"Um… Panned?"

"Bodged up. The interlace is wrong," he twirls it in his fingers, and she snatches it.

"I'll take it." Their eyes meet, and suddenly he smiles widely. Bugger. Oh god. Bugger. Nothing more articulate is happening in her grey matter. The crow's feet, the sparkling eyes, the lips! What is with her fanny and the lips in this family? Ask her what shape the ex's lips were, she wouldn't know. These ones? She can probably trace them on a paper by memory now. But she'd prefer to trace them with something different now… Uhem. She licks her lips, completely involuntarily, and then her cheeks are burning. Damn the blush!

And he has gorgeous calves! That is, honestly speaking, the only formed thought thrashing in her mind. Gastrocnemius, peroneus longus, tibialis anterior… He was forging or forgering, whatever it's called, his back to her, and these calves!

Her poor noggin pushes another daft Scot-ish phrase to her, 'Foo muckle's this?' but she suppresses the urge and goes for proper English.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Take it," he is still smiling, she is still imagining wrapping her legs around his waist. Oh bugger. But seriously, that is mental hip-shoulder ratio! And the calves! Concentrate on the conversation, Wren, although he is not saying anything…

The ring is too big, but everything always is. She has ridiculously small hands and feet, they are also narrow which adds to an aggro. Even if she finds shoes and gloves, they are always too wide. She wiggles her finger and the rings swirls around it.

"You are a peedy thing, aren't you, hen?" He is chuckling in his chest, and she assumes comparing her to a female chicken isn't supposed to be insulting. You are a chicken, she wants to yell, and about to lay an egg, for that matter! But not at the moment, actually, because he is not brooding, he is smiling with the very corners of his lips, and she clearly imagines straddling him on his anvil, and yes, somehow it's that graphic in her noggin. Oh, she needs some alone time! What's with her today? She is normally rather blah about shag. She is blaming it on the calves.

And then he pulls a string off his ponytail, and he is saying something, but she doesn't hear. Because... the hair! Oh, she really didn't need any additional stimulation, thank you very much. It is thick, glossy, and there are grey strands! And they are not that random salt in pepper, no... They are noble silver streaks, and Wren can't confess even to herself what she is thinking right now. In the words of our goddess River Song, the mind races! And then he does the hair flip! Hair flip, people! The heavy silky curtain flutters, and the hair is at his back. Wren's brain out.

He picks up the ring out of her weakened hand, puts it on the leather strap and holding it in two hands he is clearly inviting her to duck and put her head through it. She is imagining other actions, but whatever. The ring lies on her chest, she lifts her eyes, and common, mate, that's our moment! Ask Wrennie anything, at this stage she'll probably agree on blowing your bellows. OK, she seriously needs a barrel with cold water and extensive head dunking right now.

The lips, oh god the lips, slightly open, and common! But then he sets his jaw, gives her a tight smile and goes back to his anvil. What? What?! What the…?! Mate, we were having a moment here! The sexual tension was so thick one would need a knife to cut it! What's your problem?

Wren takes a breath in, and then she is cheesed off. She sticks her tongue at his wide back, and whatever, she doesn't even care about how his rhomboideus muscles move, and she marches outside. Prick.

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><p>She stomps out and looks for Bri with her eyes. Oh! Apparently Bri caught a fish. And it's a big fish. Blonde and hench, and good on you, Bri, look at those vastus lateralis, and that is the fish that played a fiddle earlier on the stage. Fili, and his was the only name Wren heard clearly, is standing very close to her, basically leaning in, and there is this overall gentleman-y but also 'I fancy you' and a bit of 'let's get it on, babe' lean-y tude in him. OK, Wren is officially still inarticulate after the tent experience. And now she feels cheesed off. It was going so well! Ugh.<p>

Wren wonders if she should just stay behind for a bit and give Bri and her golden boy more private time. Where they are standing, there is also a small group of people watching a human mountain swinging terrifying blades and repeatedly stabbing what seems to be a mutilated oil drum. No need for all this effort, honestly. It's dead, Jim.

She is sort of lost what to do now, she really doesn't want to intrude. God knows, Bri needs some of that. And Reese is nowhere to be seen. Wren is turning her head, and an elderly gentleman with forked white beard stops by her. She gives him a polite smile.

"Is Thorin in, m'lady?" The dark eyes are sparkling under bushy eyebrows, and somehow she thinks he knows something she doesn't. Oh, so it was Thorin then? Whatever. Not thinking about him and his mouth-watering… everything. Blagh.

"Um, yes, I think so. Tall, dark and forging? Yeah, he is inside."

"Very nice, very nice indeed." His tone is so chuffed as if she just told him he won a lottery. He looks at her hair and slightly shakes his head. Wren's nose twitches. Yeah, she is a ginger, so what? "Till later then, m'lady." Well, that was foreboding. Maybe she is leaving now! Who says she is sticking around?

But then Wren realises that there is a much bigger crowd, many sitting on the fence, watching something else. And something else it is!

Barechested, wearing only a kilt and shoes, Frerin, I-Have-the-Greenest-Bedroom-Eyes-in-This-Hemisphere Durinson is standing in the middle of the lawn, or whatever it's called, and he is… stretching. And it isn't an 'I just woke up' stretch, but the purposeful long legged stretch of a man getting ready for vigorous exercise. His wooden practice blade is nearly as tall as he is, and he's using it to help stretch his oblicuo externo, rectus abdominis, and latissimus dorsi as he braces his arms on it. OK, meaning side, stomach and back muscles, and he is doing very well! Wren is watching with her jaw hanging around the area of the cute leather belt Bri gave her, and obviously it's the sheer interest of a fellow combat enthusiast, pure scientific interest. Wren wipes her clammy hands on the leggings.

And then, he starts swinging the blade in slow, well rehearsed moves, and would you just look at these bloody thrusts, swings, and blocks… It looks like the man is dancing with the bloody sword. OK, it looks like he is participating in a different activity with this sword, much more intimate, and judging by the heaving chests all those maidens on the fence are imagining to be that sword. Slowly he speeds up the moves, faster and faster with every repetition, till her eyes can barely follow. Her vision might be also obstructed by the the blood roaring in her ears.

She decisively marches across the grass and wisely stops in his field of vision but behind the fence. A chick sitting near her shoulder on it gives her a death glare, Wren reciprocates. The chick scampers. Whack at ye. Wren is pissed off and on a mission.

The Golden Brown and Delicious, and yes, that's his title now, saunters to her, and she is now the one trying to keep her eyes above the neck. She fails dramatically. God, these pectoral muscles! Oh god. Breathe, Wrennie, breathe! Oh no, don't breathe! The myrtle aroma she caught on him before is stronger now, and is mixed with the fresh spicy smell of his skin, her knees are jelly, and she leans on the fence, hopefully in a relaxed nonchalant pose, and not looking like she is sliding down. She is also hoping the whimpering is only happening in her head.

"Hou's it gaun, hen?" So 'hen' is a good thing then, alright.

"Smashing," she gives him her best innocent look. "Just stopped by to make sure I remember your digits right." She repeats them, and here we go. Full frontal assault of his sexiness ensues. He smiles widely and then runs the tip of his tongue on the inside of his upper teeth. Oh god.

"Quite right, love, these are indeed the digits." Wren gives him a sly smile, not saying anything, mostly because she can't talk, and if she attempts she'll be squeaking and might, purely accidentally, start running her hands over his chest, so she just climbs on the fence and makes a wide gesture of her hand dismissing him and encouraging him to go back to his... swinging.

He is standing in front of her for a few seconds, and all sorts of graphic stuff starts galloping through her mid. She can actually stretch a bit and pull him to her if she wraps her legs around him right now. Around these very lovely semilunar lines. He makes a step towards her and places one hand on the fence near her hip. His long nose, and that is one fine nose, mamma mia, is on the level of her clavicles and she is studying the fluffy lashes.

"Aren't you supposed to be warming up?" She sounds like she just tried to swallow a hedgehog.

"I am all heated up already, love," he looks up at her, lips slightly parted, Wren is very hot, and then his face suddenly drops. His eyes are on the leather string around her neck, she has forgotten about it, the ring is under the overtunic, and he picks the string up and pulls. The ring falls on his hand. The thong is very distinct, a dark navy blue string weaved into it, and he slowly lifts his eyes to meet hers. Obviously, about 87% of all this is acting, she gets it, it's all a faire thing, she has had experience with carnies in Oregon in uni, champions faux fighting for a maiden's attention and rubbish like that, but that's a hell of a possessive look!

"How about we skip the texts and have dinner on Tuesday?" The accent in his voice is thicker, she also starts rolling her r's more when she is emotional, and it leads her to believe that those other 13% of his "that's ma hen, get ye own" might be a wee bit genuine. Wren gulps.

And then his eyes shift, and he is looking at something around her shoulder. She turns her head, and bugger. Thorin, was it? Yeah, the dark and egg producing has just pushed the back flap of the tent aside and is walking out of it as if he bloody owns the place. He might be actually, but still shouldn't he scale down the tude? Git. OK, that's officially not walking. That's strutting. Swaggering? Sashaying? Bloody drama queen, so full of himself. Like a Russian doll. Anyroad, he looks like he fancies himself a King here. And he is barechested. And just... oh god. It's like the darker and wider and taller version of the body that is in front of her, and apparently one can drool over two hot bodies at the same time. The one in front of her is covered in dark chestnut hair and the tattoos are mostly in dark blue, the man currently bloody prancing through the gate is all coarse black hair and crisp black tattoos. The thingie on his left shoulder is mind numbing. It's round and black, there is a large branching tree as a negative space, and all that ink must have hurt. He probably didn't even wince. Oh god, Wrennie is in a pickle.

She turns and meets the tense green eyes in front of her. A squeal 'who me? I wasn't looking! Not me!' wants to erupt out of her, but she remembers she is a free woman and a feminist and jerks her chin up.

"Alright then," he straightens up and starts walking to the center of the lawn, or whatever it's called. Oh, the calves thing is apparently genetic. Oooph, where is Wrennie's bucket with ice water?

And then the other one decides to warm up too. Yes, please, we wouldn't want those lovely brachioradialis to hurt tomorrow, do we, lovey? Wren is not new to the world of male bodies stretching and moving in the most enticing ways but… A. His sword is bigger. And wider. Wrennie is feeling dizzy. B. He goes through the same moves, well, we are all human, muscles are the same, but then he swirls the bloody thing above his head! Wren is watching him impersonating something between a helicopter and a majorette with her baton, Bunty Carmichael would approve, and then she realises she is fidgeting with the string on her neck.

And then the two heavy bodies clash. Oh. My. Lord. Heavy bodies… Heavenly bodies… Somebody call a medic, Wren is overheating.


	3. Cockles and Muscles

**A/N: This chapter was co-written with Wynni, after all what do I know about Renaissance Faires? :D**

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><p>Yeah, one thing. Before the aforementioned heavenly bodies clashed, the Golden Brown and Delicious, also known as Frerin Looking-Better-In-Skirt-Than-You Durinson gave the quickly growing crowd a low bow and announced that he was dedicating "this rammy to the lassie in the Robin Hood claes." Wren squirmed on her fence, she clearly imagined half of the birds around her tackling her to the ground and shredding her like a confidential document. The second half was sort of maybe even liking her, since they were extensively salivating over the older Durinson, but then he just had to open his gob as well.<p>

"Aye, that is fair. How about it, lass?" Thorin I-Fancy-A-Girl-But-Won't-Do-Owt-About-It threw her a look over his shoulder and twirled his bloody sword over his head again. "A kiss for the victor?"

You know that moment when you suspect everyone might be staring at you? Well, Wren doesn't suspect, she knows every bloody pair of eyes in the vicinity is on her. She can obviously send him where the sun don't shine, but she wouldn't want to be billy-no-mates and spoil everyone's fun. When in Rome and such. She gives him a murderous glare and sees one corner of his lips curl up. Prick. Where was your lippy tude before? In the tent? When I was making eyes at you?

"Sure, just no slacking," she narrows her eyes at him, and he has the nerve to cock one brow at her. Oh, she so hates the git! "At least make it look real!" That gets her a bout of laughter from the crowd. After all, what's the worst that can happen, right? It's all probably like the carnies, all show and no real stuff.

"As my lady wishes," the Dark and Oddly Indecisive gives her a low bow, and she gives him an haughty tight smile. Her eyes meet the green eyes of the younger Durinson, he gives her a bow too, and she blows him a kiss. What's the worst that can happen, right?

"Lass, tell me you didn't just say that to my uncles?" A pleasantly low and masculine yet slightly tense voice comes from her right, and she turns her head to meet bright blue eyes of Bri's fella, and wow, it's like the best of the two worlds. He has the darker uncle's features, same glacial eyes, but there is sunny and chummy air around him, the same as his younger uncle has, except right now Bri's blonde prospective suitor looks a bit spun out.

"Huh?" Wren sees Bri standing near him and worriedly watching the two men on the grass.

"Oh lordy, Wren, what have you done?" Bri looks slightly pale, and Wren is starting to feel a wee bit uncomfortable.

"What? I mean it's just a show, right?" She is looking between Bri and her fella, but the concern on their faces isn't reassuring.

"Well, let me put it this way. This," Fili shows her a deep, terrifyingly looking bruise on his arm, and Wren is feeling slightly nauseated, not from the view, she has seen, inflicted and received plenty of these, but from sudden realisation that she might have arsed up, "This can happen on a good day. You just gave them good reason to swing for the fences."

"That's a real fight out there, Wren. It's not a scripted fight!" Bri is as close as Wren has ever seen her to wringing her hands. She keeps looking over her shoulder, as if hoping to see someone there. "Now would be an excellent time for Dwalin to show up."

Wren is going to ask who the mysterious Dwalin is, when the first blow cracks the air, and the crowd roars. Wren whips her head to look at the coliseum where she apparently just set up a 'morituri te salutant' match. Wren gulps. The two brothers circle, looking for an opening with a restless energy. The next strike is swift and brutal, Wren jumps up on the fence and bites into her bottom lip painfully. Luckily, a sword meets a sword, and not some of those long, bulging muscles, and surely the wood would break from the sheer bloody ferocity. Again, the sound is as sharp and loud as the first clash, and Wren is physically uncomfortable from the intensity in the two pairs of eyes. Carnies did not have eyes like that... Muscles bulge, bodies move, both of them remind Wren of some big barmy beasts of the wild kind, Wren is no good with animals, she probably wouldn't suss a lynx from a badger, but whatever is happening, and it's equally arousing and terrifying, makes her think of mountain lions. The terror in her is winning though, since Wren is used to her bagua cane, the noble and delicate martial art. These two are industriously trying to end each other in. And she is at fault! The crowd is roaring and cheering, but Wren doesn't share their enthusiasm. She both can't tear her eyes off them and is that close in covering her face with her hands. Bugger, bugger, bugger, that is utterly horrifying!

The men are once again circling, when the younger Durinson lunges with what appears to be an all or nothing plunge, his brother manages to counter it, the loud snap of their swords meeting becoming almost familiar, when she sees Frerin using the energy of the backswing to fuel an almost immediate second strike. Thorin is wearing an almost indulgent grin, a prick much? Frerin's clever stroke meets only air, the Dark One has spun away from it and used the moment to swipe Frerin's feet out from under him.

"Did ye really think to catch me with a strike I taught ye, wee brither?"

"Eh, I thought ye might have forgotten, in your dotage, auld as ye are." Frerin wisely rolls to his feet well out of Thorin's range.

"It only takes one lesson with Dwalin to learn to not be where that strike lands, and one never grows auld enough to forget a lesson from Dwalin's hawns." Thorin is again twirling that sword, as if loosening up his arm muscles, and shrugs back into a ready position, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.

Wren has one consoling thought though, she suspects this whole barney has little to do with her. Firstly, they are doing a wee bit of a show for the potential patrons. And also, Wren has three adopted brothers, she knows what blokes are like, and brotherly rivalry is no news to her. Given her brothers mostly used their fists and not mental wooden swords that are taller than her, but still...

"Just what do you mucklehead ed glackits think you're about?" Wren jumps up on her fence from a booming voice coming from the side of the lawn, and although she is not one of the 'muckleheaded glackits,' she feels like reconsidering her behaviour. Judging by Fili's suddenly relaxing posture and Bri's relieved exhale, that is Dwalin. Blimey, he is huge! Those arms could wear her belt probably and feel tight in it. Jaysus.

"Just a wee ceilidh!" Frerin yells back cheerfully, his eyes on his brother. Wren knows that word, it's 'a dance party.' But blimey, what is happening there is no bloody dance party! She throws a hopeful look on the shaved-headed giant hoping he'll stop it.

"I dinna ken how even barmy tosspots such as yerselves could possibly forget every single bleeding bit of sense I've taught ye!" He is roaring like a wounded bull. Maybe. Wren has never seen a wounded bull. "Ye ken we'll have to retire those practice blades now?!"

Frerin, apparently ignoring Dwalin, again tries for a preemptive strike. Thorin, still wearing that infuriating indulgent grin of his, spins behind his brother and sweeps low with his blade, brushing Frerin off his feet, and plowing him face first into the ground… Where he slides rather satisfactorily, like those septic baseball players, except clock down, right into a puddle at Wren's feet. Yep. Thorin Grouchy Grouch Durinson is not shy to add an insult to the injury. And to do it spectacularly and painfully humiliatingly.

* * *

><p>OK, so, on one hand, Wren should feel sorry for the younger brother. He is stretched on the ground bum up, yum, not right now, fanny, but the only thought in Wren's head is "aaahhh!" And that probably the Dark and Egg Producing's lips are soft. They looked soft. Oh god, they were looking so, so soft. Wait, why is she thinking about lips? No one specified the location of the victor's prize!<p>

The Muddy and Defeated groans and lifts his torso on his arms. Awww, you poor lambkin! Wren is torn between jumping down and consoling the loser, and jumping the victor. Wait, what? What is wrong with her?!

Bri's snorting and giggling, her face pressed into the wide shoulder of her own blonde Durinson, isn't helping Wren a bit. She tears her eyes off the muddy one who is now sitting on his jacksie, shaking his head like a stroppy pony, and Wren glares at her childhood friend. Traitor.

"Bri?... A bit of help would really be nice right now," she hisses, trying to delegate the level of torturous discomfort she is in. Bri gives Wren a laughing look from the corner of one of her gorgeous brown eyes, still hiding her face into the Durinson. By the way the git is snorting too.

"What would you have me do, Wren? I cain't pick for you!" Oh so infuriating.

"I am not talking about choosing, I am talking about being forced into a snog..." Wren doesn't get to finish her half choked tirade when there is a cough. A bloody delicate polite cough. She freezes like a bunny in her Nana's yard that just a jiffy ago was peacefully munching on a carrot and now is about to get shot in the head with Granddad Leary's rifle.

"The show must go on," whispers Bri, and Wren is pondering kicking her best friend. And then she turns to the Dark and… Oh bugger, she has no more snidy remarks and titles for him anymore, since his eyes are on her, and they are burning. It's probably still the adrenaline coursing his blood. She suspects the gulp she emits can be heard over the hill the armoury is on.

And then he picks her up under her arms and takes her off her fence. Good fence, Wrennie loves her fence, Wrennie wants back on her fence! She shortly wonders if she grabs the rail whether he will still pull, making her leave claw marks on it. There is option two. She might lunge at him before they are nicely placed in the center of the lawn thingie, in front of all the spectators, and instead of the whole romantic medieval victor-gets-a-princess's-kiss, the crowd will be subjected to the view of her snogging all sense out of him.

He has giant hands, and the fingers are very long, and she feels them burning her skin on the ribs through the clobber, seriously, they are almost encircling her, and she is passively hanging while he is carrying her like a vase and puts her gently on the grass. And then the prick slightly bends down, because, let's face it, if he didn't she'd be kissing his sternum. OK, not thinking about this, oh god… She was right, the pectoral muscles are to die for. And the hair, oh the glorious, black, tempting chest hair. Wren gives herself a mental slap.

He is leaning down, and it is sort of a vague leaning, just placing his noggin on her level, so she can absolutely give his cheek an unassuming peck, and be done with it. The crowd is cheering and chanting "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Wren can't say she fancies to be part of the show, not that she has a stage fright, she teaches in front of a giant room full of people, but still the cheeks are burning. Though again, when isn't she blushing?

OK, Wren, me darling, you cocked up, and now it's pay up time. Alright, cheek, cheek, she focuses her eyes on the cheek, and jayses, it looks delicious. The tanned skin above the thick black beard, and the long fluffy lashes are in front her, and what is it with lashes in this family?! There is one aggro though, he is smirking. And it is of the 'I'm a bloody alpha here, I'm entitled' type, and he is watching her from under a hiked brow, that is a very whimsical angle by the way, and he is quite obviously chuffed with her discomfort and feels very smug. Wren feels very cheesed off. Cheek, cheek, just one peck on the cheek, and she is good to go.

* * *

><p>She grabs his head with both her hands and pulls his lips to hers. He jerks under her palms, but let's face it, he recovers very quickly. She might also be arching into him, and the large scorching hands meet on her back. Wren wonders whether that dull thud she just heard was his sword falling on the ground, or the leftover sanity of hers conking out, and then he pulls her in even tighter, and…<p>

OK, Wren has to officially declare at this stage that she has never, ever, ever in her life behaved that way. A. She doesn't snog random blokes. B. She doesn't do public snogging, just not her thing. It happens, no one is perfect. One can get overwhelmed and aha! But in front of a crowd of people cheering and making praising comments on her technique? That's not Wrennie Leary for sure. And yet… And C. She is pissed off at him!

But wow, the bloke knows what he is doing. One hand is cradling her head, another is splayed on her back, and seriously, the fingers are fanned from her bra to the knickers! And slowly moving lower! Oh god...

"Ye fancy to take it some place private?" The grumpy voice of the one called Dwalin reaches Wren's foggy brain, and she jumps away from Thorin in her usual manner that Bri calls 'a caffeinated squirrel mode.'

Oh bugger, oh bugger. Her lips are tingly, she has a beard burn, and oh horror, the embarrassment! Her palms are burning from all the rubbing his chest she has just performed, how did that happen exactly? Wren does the only thing she has strength for, she twirls on her heels without looking at him and rushes back to her fence, looking for Bri with her eyes. Bri will save her! Bri is a brick! She'll be taking mickey out of her till no end, but she'll save her!

Wren forgets one thing. Her fence and Bri are at the same the location as the younger Durinson uncle. He is now standing, and mud is still dripping off him, and she hits the brakes in front of him. And then Fili, and she is going to bite his head off once they know each other better, pushes a towel into her hands. She is staring at it, and terror creeps into her mind.

"That's for Uncle Frerin," his hundred watt grin is lighting up the lawn and makes Wren think she hates this family. She turns, the chest covered in chestnut hair is suddenly in front of her nose, and she really has nothing to say but… Oh poop.


	4. Pop Goes the Ginger

Is it a crime to enjoy the sensation of the second muscular chest under one's hands in the course of five minutes? Wren feels it might be. Wren feels like the worst of criminals. But god honest, she tried to be a good girl. She did try to hand the towel to the younger of the two Durinsons, and she did expect him to take it. She did not expect him to move even closer and give her a wide grin. And now she is wiping mire off his very pleased clock. And she has already appraised his nose earlier, the straight bridge, the length, and overall… Wow. And she might have wiped some dirt off his chest already. And collarbones. And shoulders. The towel is manky by now, she is basically just smearing it further, but he doesn't seem inclined to stop her. And who is she to point it out to him? Oh, Wrennie is a slag. Oh horror, oh shame. God, that is one sexy chest!

"Ye haven't been a guid lass, have ye, Wren?" Frerin's brogue rolls into Wren's ear, and if she had fur it'd stand up on her nape. She hasn't, has she? She drops her head guiltily and rubs a blotch of dirt on his serratus anterior. But then... wait, what?! She wasn't a bad lass! She doesn't owe the bloke anything!

She takes a step back from him, jerks her chin up, and crumpling it she smacks the towel into his smug clock.

"I am not a very 'guid lass' in general, so maybe you want to reevaluate your plans for Tuesday evening, love," the last word is a hiss, the whole phrase was a venomous sneer, and she sees his face grow long. Prick. Maybe more than his brother. Maybe not. Who cares? She swirls on her heels and gives Bri a regal look.

"I will be inside the tent," that's her haughty tone, and the damn accent is stronger. She is cheesed off. "I haven't seen all rings yet. I need a new ring." That's a gibe towards both brothers, since the second one is already nearby. She isn't looking but she can feel the heat coming off him. And the juniper smell. She had lungfuls of it when they were… Nope, not thinking about it. "Bri, see you there when you are done here." She vaguely gestures all over the blonde bloke and then blushes. That was a wee bit rude. She gives him an apologetic smile and starts marching to the tent.

The older one catches up with her. Seriously?!

"Wren, would you wait please?" The accent is almost gone, he is not acting, and she throws a look at him over her shoulder. There is an angry bruise blooming on his right shoulder. Bloody hell, how was she supposed to know they would try to kill each other? She thought that it was an act and that she was pretty much just as a bloody prop! She sighs. She feels a bit guilty, whatever she said to Frerin. And again, the way she just kissed him… That was a wee bit too much. Not that he minded, given.

"Yes?" She slows down but doesn't stop. He has legs, he can walk. Oh bugger, not thinking about the legs. They include calves! Oh god.

"Would you go out with me?" OK, this makes her dig her heels into the ground. What?! What?! Now he is asking?! But… But… In the tent! How's the bodged up situation they are in right now, with him and his brother having just gone berserk in front of her eyes, and seriously, he is bleeding, for the name of all deities, how is now a good time to ask her out?!

"I am having dinner with Frerin on Tuesday." Yeah, about that… Wren pretty much starts blabbering all the wrong things out when she is nervous. Cue the above statement.

"Then have dinner with me on Monday." What the actual fudge, in the name of Gallifrey? He is so bloody chill! He looks almost grumpy, like he doesn't really fancy inviting her out, but sort of has to. She is studying his face. Her first impulse is to yell 'why' into his face, but that would be daft. The Golden and Delicious is easy to read, he is pretending to be smitten and he has done it hundreds of times. What is the deal with this Grouch-o?

"I am teaching on Monday evening." She is. And she is not quite certain what the bleeding sort of palava is going on.

"Wednesday then?" OK, seriously?! Wren is staring at him in confusion. "You can cancel on Tuesday evening of course. But if anything, Wednesday is as good a day as any." He is completely calm, his icy blue eyes on her, and she quickly ponders it. She doesn't owe any of them anything, and she sort of… the teensiest bit fancies both. And they annoy her too, they have just put her through a wringer, and she says "what the hell." And she will just be honest and open with both. If either of them has any barney with it, it's their funeral.

"Give me your digits, I'll text you," she grumbles under her nose, and he gives her his number. Oh what an aggro!

* * *

><p>She might have walked with her head proudly set outside, but once she enters the tent she feels brassed off and knackered. Seriously, she chatted with a fit bloke, took his number, no promises made by the way, then another one popped up but didn't say anything, so she confirmed with the first one, and common, he seemed decent! Then they started preparing for a fight, and it's all easie peasie and looks innocent and staged, and how would she know? She's only been to a carnival, and nothing, literally nothing is for real there! And then put of the blue the two of them decided to end each other in front of her eyes!<p>

There is a low bench near the wall, and Wren drops on it heavily. She is rubbing her temples, it feels like a headache is coming. Maybe the whole Renaissance Faire wasn't such an ace idea after all, she literally understands ten percent of what's going on and managed to properly cock it up.

"I believe you need a cuppa, lass." By then Wren has already stopped jumping up when soft Scottish voices all of a sudden pour into her ear. It's that sort of day.

She tiredly turns her head. This one looks like a crossover between St. Nick and Doc the Dwarf from Disney. He is also holding a mug with steaming tea, and Wren catches the aroma of raspberry leaves. Oh, nothing better than them against an upcoming migraine, her Nana used to add them to her tea. She is still eyeing him suspiciously though. She has learnt her lesson. The nice charming Scots she has met today all turned into freaking murderous psychos! First one seemed like a charming cheek, the second one was a slightly grumpy hottie, reserved and grounded, and then they went and tried to decorate the nice green grass outside with the content of each other's noggins! To say nothing about the fact that they were stopped by the scariest arse Scot whom she can literally use as a parasol if she needs to hide her pale skin from the sun. If this one suddenly grabs that two bladed axe from that table over there, by the wall and runs out yelling "Alba gu bràth!" and yes, she watched _Braveheart_, and no, she doesn't think an Aussie makes a convincing Wallace, she probably wouldn't even wince.

She takes the mug out of his hands. A plate of shortbreads pops up in front of her nose, and she takes it too. Her healthy lifestyle can go and smoke in the corner, she is having a wee bit of a difficult day. The biscuits are melting in her mouth, the tea is strong and fragrant, and let's face it, it's a rarity in these lands, and she stretches her legs in front of her and sighs almost contently.

The Scottish Grandpa is moving in the front of the tent, there are customers coming and going, and Wren feels tension leaving her body. After a while he comes up to her, and his eyes are sparkling.

"Feeling better, lass?" She nods and gives him a grateful smile.

"Balin MacFundin, at your service," he gives her a low bow, spreading his arms as if she were a tailor and were to measure him for a fancy jacket. Wren gets up and brushes shortbread crumbs off her clothes.

"Wren Leary, at yours," she mimics his gesture, and he chuckles.

"Have the boys given you grief, m'lady? I have heard the noise." Wren's nose twitches. "I haven't seen them gurrie that much for years, but again you are a bonnie lass," he is still chuckling, and she feels a flattered blush on her cheeks. He is easy and chummy, and she smiles to him widely. "Don't mind them, Thorin is a wee bit of a crabit, and Frerin havers, but they are good lads." OK, so Thorin is a grouch, Frerin never shuts his gob, but they are solid. Wren doesn't want to think of either.

At that moment Bri and her blonde fella, and maybe there are sane peeps in this family, come in. They look very cozy together, and Wren imagines making a small happy dance in her head. Bri really needs it, after the last time.

Bri is eyeing Wren worriedly, and Wren gives her a reassuring smile. A cuppa and biscuits have fixed her mood, and she thinks she might be able to stop seeing two men trying to batter each other into pulp every time she closes her eyes. Bri is leaving to a pub with Fili, and the last thing Wren wants is to be a gooseberry. Her friend obviously wouldn't mind, but the little twinkle in the blonde hottie's eyes tells Wren he needs to be given space and time to spread his wings.

While Bri is threatening Balin MacFundin, Southern sass galoure, that he has to take good care of Wren, the latter quickly exchanges understanding looks with Fili. He gives her a big smile, she theatrically frowns at him. Bri might be the ball of fire, but Wren will julienne him and serve him with raspberry vinegar if he as much as makes her 'slightly dischuffed,' to say nothing of 'gutted.' Wren is a Mick when needed. He might be a New Age Viking here, but she'll bust his dial like there is no tomorrow, like her Granddad used to say, she is 'all hepped up and hopes he fancies hospital food.' Fili makes big honest eyes. Wren cocks a brow. Fili makes bigger eyes. Seriously, how is he doing it? Wren nods. They have reached the understanding. And blimey, the two look good together!

As soon as Bri and Fili's backs disappear in the front entrance of the tent, the back flat opens, and Wren's Aggro #1 and Aggro #2 drag their sorry arses into the tent. Judging by the storm raging behind the brow of the Dwalin bloke who steps in after them, the plonkers are in trouble. Seriously, everything about the hench bloke is terrifying. Just like the Thirteenth Doctor, even his eyebrows are attack eyebrows. Jaysus. He growls something that Wren can't quite suss out but the meaning is clear. The eejits are grounded. Maybe because they can't play nice together, or they broke the expensive toys. Or both. Dwalin goes back outside, the plonkers notice Wren, and she feels like squeaking and hiding behind the Scottish Grandpa. Seriously, they immediately look like gundogs, every muscle tense, and eyes glued to her. She suspects it's because they both are there and just can't stand the competition, and she feels like flipping them a bird. She is still not over the spectacle of them bashing each other black and blue.

Balin McFundin is a hard bloke apparently, he gives them a glare, and they both shrink. Interesting… But then again, there is a clear hierarchy in this testosterone overloaded bunch, and she loops her arm through his, while the two gimps are left behind to look after the tent, and she is regally floating out not sparing them a glance, while the man beside her looks like it's the happiest day of his life, he looks honoured and exhilarated, and that is how you treat a lady, manky goms.

* * *

><p>Wren is thoroughly enjoying her day. Balin MacFundin is considerate, decorous and knows every living soul around. He asks after wives and 'bairns,' proudly introduces Wren to everyone, and she feels like a princess. She is shown around, she tries treats and sweets, buys jewelry, watches puppet shows, and doesn't think about a single Scot except the one beside her through the whole time. It is time to go meet Bri and change for the party, and Wren kisses Balin's cheek thanking him for a great time, and she feels maybe a nice costume do isn't such a bad idea.<p>

Which poses an important question, when will Wren learn?


	5. Eeny, Meeny, Miny, More

**A/N: Have you checked Wynni's page for Bri/Fili side of the story? :)**

* * *

><p>Upon receiving Bri's gracious approval, and thank you, Bri, for though witty but unnerving comments on how much the brothers will appreciate Wren's "sweet little self in this getup," Wren has purchased a costume for tonight's knees up. Apparently it's a faire thing, called a revel, and people drink and dance. She can't do the first, but does the second for living. She saw the outfit in the window and apologetically subjected poor Mr. MacFundin to holding her previous purchases and waiting for her to try it on. He seemed content, chin wagging with the vendour, and when she stepped out of the fitting room to ask whether they had a matching mask, she vaguely remembered Bri mentioning it was a masquerade, both her gallant companion and the vendour had very strange facial expressions. She decided to ignore it and took an offered mask out of vendour's hands.<p>

The outfit is a fairy. Well, as much as Wren knows about fairies. It is basically a mini dress, bodice sparkly, lacy skirt that hardly covers her bum, but there are organza and silk ribbons hanging from the waist at the back, so she sort of has a trail. At the ends of ribbons, and that's Wren's favourite part, there are intricately made oak leaves, all of the outfit is of fern green, but some of the parts are of slightly different shades. The mask she is offered and is immediately in love with covers the top half of her face and is made to look like oak leaves too, with a few cute acorns on it. She also buys a pair of leather slippers, in the same green, with even more adorable acorns as buttons. The mysterious looks from the vendour are explained when she is paying and it turns out it is a costume for a child. Wren sighs sadly, she is used to shopping in kids department. And it explains the length of the skirt. Well, she has skinny pins, it's not like she will look inappropriate.

Balin is walking her to the tavern where they are to meet Bri and Fili, Wren sends her friend a text in advance telling 'to make themselves decent.' She can just imagine the huffing and puffing and the righteous indignation that Wren's clever remark is met with, but then suddenly she receives an answer that is hardly legible due to the overload of typos and only the phrase 'I haz meade' making any sense in it. Wren regrets Reese is not around, that would be a perfect moment for a wager. Has Bri tackled her Blonde and Sunny on the floor in a snog attack already? Has she been dancing on the table? And yes, there have been precedents.

On the way the Scottish Grandpa offers Wren and Bri to use the apartments his family is renting to take a shower and change for the do. Wren mumbles something, thinking she'll ask Bri what the proper protocol in this situation is and whether it's done, and whether Bri thinks it is safe to let Wren in the same space as the yummy brothers, when Wren sees Fili and Bri on a bench outside the tavern. Bri is industriously drinking water, while Fili is rubbing her back, his face schooled into a considerate concerned expression. Oh dear, Bri has caught the 'sillies' as she calls it. That is what the barmy mixture of Bri and mead produce, which commonly ends in either a jig on furniture, and Bri might be the only person besides herself that Wren has seen being able to balance on armrests of a chair and still look every bit like Micheal Flatley. There is always option two. Bri and weaponry demonstration. If she is not in a mood for dancing, Bri goes for bows. If they are somewhere the aforementioned item is unavailable, she can make one. But something tells Wren this time Bri would have had no trouble finding props.

"Dancing or shooting peeps?" She asks Fili, who hands Bri another glass of water.

"Dancing. I was impressed," Fili chuckles, and Wren decides she likes the bloke. Platonically, she has had enough of any of that manky romance thing for today.

"A shower would be nice," Bri mumbles flatly, and Wren sighs. That decides it then. They are going into the lion's den.

* * *

><p>Apparently the whole faire thing is seasonal, and the apartments are an actual building with flats for rent, which makes Wren very relieved. She has already sent texts to Reese and a whole bunch of her friends telling them where they are heading, and she has GPS on her mobile, but she still thinks no amount of caution is too much caution. Bri has seemingly recovered from her inebriation and is amicably chatting with Fili behind Wren. Balin opens the door to the flat, letting the girls in first, a feminist in Wren raises its spiky head…<p>

And chokes on its own venom and dies with a mournful whimper. Frerin Durinson is frozen mid step in the doorway at the other end of the small hall they stepped in. He is faring two items of clothing. An ickle towel around his hips, and an even smaller one he is drying his mane with. Wren wonders whether everyone heard the squeak that just erupted out of her very core. Wren reckons, yes. She quickly clasps her hand over her mouth to silence the next squeak coming up.

Bri is still talking, cheerfully recalling last year's scupper with her costume, and bumps into Wren's back. Wren is prepared to share the joy of observing all the glory in front of her with her dear friend, when there is some rustle behind her, and Bri's oddly muffled voice asks, "Fili, why is my face full of your shirt?"

Apparently 'macho-alpha-not-sharing-me-hen' tude runs in the family. Fili grabbed Bri, apparently swirled her on her feet and pressed her face into his chest. Well, Wren has no beau to offend the feelings of, she is allowed to look. Oh god, and how she wants to! But she has wisened up since this morning. She lifts a hand with her bags and shields her eyes from the view of the pectoralis major, deltoid, and rectus femoris. Especially rectus femoris, because those are exactly those bloody calves!

"Put some claes on, gom!" Fili yells, Bri is funnily trying to wiggle from under his bear paw on the back of her head, small hands flailing and trying to push away from the wide chest, Wren is cussing her photographic memory in her head. Except for the peedy towel, and no, she hasn't learnt this word from the older brother of the golden wet god she is currently not looking at, Frerin Durinson as her Nana would say is 'lomnocht,' and Wren did not need the image of the golden brown hair all over the sculpted body. Bugger.

"Are you visiting?" Frerin's voice is completely nonchalant, and Fili repeats his polite request this time decorating it with 'bampot' and 'pesh.'

"Yes, and I hope there is some hot water left." Really, Wren? When will you learn to keep your gob shut? Her tombstone will say "The bird blathered a wee too much." She is still staring at her shopping bags.

"Oh, you went to the Wicked Weaves!" He sounds like they went to the sweets shop, instead of a costume vendour, and brought him some toffees. Oh no, what are you doing?! Stop coming closer! She can hear the soft steps of bare feet on the floor, and that's when Bri springs to freedom.

And Thorin enters the room.

"Frerin, you pesh, where is my bleeding towel?" That's a growl if she has ever heard one. She has. From him. It is so fit that tingles run down her spine.

Wren asks herself at what point she has been transported from a gritty and terrifying medieval drama with swords clashing into a daft sit-com. Frerin's nose is in her bags, Bri is sniggering like mad, her eyes roaming his glorious starkers everything, Fili is gathering air in his lungs to no doubt give Frerin out, and Thorin is observing all of it with a cocked brow, and then his eyes meet Wren's. OK, she officially has changed her mind, the day hasn't improved.

Balin softly closes the door behind them and claps his hands, "I think we all need a cuppa and some pieces, and then our guests can kip down a wee bit before the revel." Wren doubts they have extra bedrooms, or extra beds for that matter. Frerin is still loudly rummaging in her bags, and she is imagining ending herself up. Won't be a barney considering all the weapons scattered around her.

* * *

><p>Wren is certain that even Alice had less aggro with her tea drinking. They are all to seat around a small table in the kitchen, Wren rushes by Bri to take a seat by the wall so fast that Bri's luscious curls that have escaped her do fly up in a cloud of golden honey. And then her poor noggin is jerked again because Wren drags her after herself to place her between Wren and… everyone else. Balin is decorously making tea, Fili is making eyes to Bri, and Wren is stubbornly studying the roses on her mug. Leave it to Bri to find herself a perfect match, they are already having a silent conversation like an old married couple and judging by Bri's sniggers and the sparkles dancing in Fili's eyes, Wren and Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber are the main course in their frolics feast.<p>

"Wren, honey?" Frerin's voice is sweeter than the content of a jar he is offering her, well, at least he threw some clothes on. The fact that it is a worn out soft tee, and still the kilt, oh Wrennie's fanny isn't not doing that well, and the fact that the tee seems to be too small to accommodate his pectoralis major do not add any comfort to Wren. As well as the fact that she just thought he called her 'honey.'

"Um, ta," she mumbles, and then there is a teaspoon under her nose. Wow, those are very long arms, Mr. Dark and Egg Laying! Thorin is stretching his arm across the table and is gracefully holding the spoon with his thumb and the index finger, and bugger, she does have a thing for his hands.

"Biscuits?" OK, the older brother can sound sweet too. Wren will probably be sick from all this sugar, but anything to stop this aggro! She grabs a large shortbread and stuffs it in her mouth. Bri snorts, Wren kicks her under the table, Frerin theatrically yelps. Wren with her mouth full of manky sweet stickiness loudly moans to signal an apology, and several pairs of eyes are on her. Death, come swiftly to Wrennie Leary!

"Do you sing, Wren? You have a very melodic... voice," Frerin licks his lips, Wren is looking for an unoccupied space on the table to start headbanging, and then she throws a pitiful look at Bri. Bri is engaged, she is exchanging heated looks with the blonde hottie. Wren would groan, but her moan has already gotten her into a barney.

"She is horrible. Tone deaf," Bri finally returns to Earth. Thank you, Bri! Oh, Wren could just kiss her! Oopsie daisy, probably not a good idea. The amount of simmering testosterone in this kitchen is off the charts. "But she sure as shootin' knows how to cut a rug. A regular goddess on the dance floor. She teaches zumba, you know? It's like latino dance but tougher." Bri is very proud of herself. She has just poured a canister of petrol into a forge fire. Wren clearly imagines breaking off a chair leg and showing off her best bagua cane skills on her best friend, but then she swallows the biscuits and goes for a low blow.

"Ta, bri, that is a wonderful compliment. I am indeed a poor singer," she mournfully shakes her head, "While Bri on the other hand has the voice of an angel. Or a syrene, of course, depending on the content." The men at the table whip their heads, even Balin is eyeing Bri with interest, and Wren is watching her friend slowly looking increasingly reminiscent of the Home Alone kid, "She can be a bit shy, claims she has stage fright, but if you ask nicely..." Wren takes a sip from her mug, letting the information sink. "I am certain she will not refuse you a duet, Fili." Bri indeed is in a bit of love-hate relationships with being in the center of attention. And Wren loves her to bits. But she told them about zumba!

"You used to teach pole dancing classes!" Bri squeaks out. Men at the table look like Wimbledon spectators. Left, right, left, right…

"You can sing that song about a Scotsman's penis with a bow on it under the kilt!" Bri's head rather loudly meets the table in front of her.

But Briallen Davis has fallen but isn't defeated. She is a proud daughter of mixed descent, and all of the best kind, and she will not be subdued. Wren is bracing for the next blow. Apparently the audience is holding their breath. Everyone except Thorin are looking at the curly back of Bri's head, soon they will start chanting 'Finish her!' while Dark and Brooding's eyes are on Wren, and she can read them like an ABC. He is still thinking about pole dancing. Bri is silent, and then she slowly lifts her head, the large, russet brown eyes are shining, and the full pink lips are stretched in a feral grin. Oh shite.

"And you have won the interstate championship in sword swallowing." Fatality! The winner is in the red corner, and it is Briallen Carys Annwen Davis.

OK, Wren is momentarily distracted from the calamity that has befallen her by the perfection that is Brili. And yes, that is official now. Bri plus Fili. Brangelina can go in a corner and mourn their status of a celebrity couple. Because even after mentioning of sword swallowing Fili is still looking at Bri, a triumphant grin on her clock, while the three other men at the table are slowly turning their heads towards Wren.

"I need a shower!" She jumps on her feet, face burning, but she knows the end is nigh. Frerin opens his mouth, the remark that is bursting out of him is no doubt witty and laced with innuendos, but Thorin suddenly slams his palm into the table.

"I will show you the facilities," he gets up, and it becomes clear who alpha male is here. Frerin closes his mouth with a clank of teeth, Balin takes another sip from his mug, and Wren follows Thorin out of the kitchen. Not without whispering 'Scarborough Fair' in Fili's ear. She heard Bri singing this song, the tee time before Fili unleashes his puppy eyes is three seconds. It might not be much, but Wren is feeling at least partially avenged.

While Wren is washing her hair, she can hear Bri singing. This little victory lets her recuperate from the stress of choosing between juniper and myrtle soaps. She goes for lavender, which she hates. She assumes it belongs to one of the nephews, and she prefers it that way.


	6. Here We Go Round The Strawberry Bush

**A/N: OMG, Neewa, the pic you gave the link to in the review is to die for!**

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><p>They are offered a nap, but Wren prefers to hide in the kitchen and attempt to talk to Balin, while the Disturbing Duo move somewhere in the apartments, she jumps up from every thud, and Bri goes for a kip, bunny ears, in Fili's room. Wren does see him carrying clean sheets in it, but ravishing him on them would be a wee bit too early, especially for Bri. She is also probably rather bedraggled after her nonconsensual singing, Wren feels bad about it, but most of her noggin is occupied with terror that they now know of the pole dancing and sword swallowing. She got third place by the way, not much to be proud of.<p>

Wren is all dressed and is twirling before a big mirror in what she was told is Kili's bedroom, when Bri arrives to help her with the hair. Bri is carrying a giant pile of ribbons and pins and freezes in the doors. And then she starts whistling what even Wren can suss out is the Looney Tunes tune.

"You realize, of course, this means war," Bri does her best impersonation of Bugs Bunny, and Wren stares at her in confusion. "The two knuckleheads fighting like tomcats over you? And now I'm performing with them tomorrow evening." Wren is too chuffed with her clobber to remind Bri that it was Bri's mentioning zumba that got her into trouble to start with. OK, Wren admits herself she does look fit. The green brings out her eyes, the arse looks lovely, and she theatrically shows the mask to Bri.

And then her totty of a friend all of a sudden starts roaring with laughter pointing first on Wren's shoes, then her ribbon skirt, and then the mask in Wren's hands. She is laughing so hard that she can't breathe out a word. Wren is looking her garb over, not understanding. She is wearing cute little slippers, the acorn buttons on top are to die for, and she is simply in love with the green oak leaves sewn to the organza and silk ribbons she has in her trail. And the mask is ace. What?

"Oak… All over you… Oak… Lord Almighty..."

"Yes, it's an oak fairy something or rather," Wren is feeling a bit spun out. Has she made yet another mistake in this barmy place? Is there a rule against dressing up like a tree?!

"Y'see, Wrennie, me darlin', I know you ain't a big reader, but the names they have…"

"Yeah, I know, Frerin told me, they are from some barmy ancient poem." Wren still doesn't understand what is wrong with her cute outfit.

"Yeah, and Tolkien used 'em, too. You know, Tolkien? The book they turned into a movie just a little while ago?" Wren has a clear memory of a poster in a cinema. Wren isn't into that kind of stuff.

"Yeah, the one with blokes with pointy ears and a CGI dragon."

"Blasphemy, Wren. Watch your words 'round here. But anyways there is a Thorin in Tolkien's book, and his name is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror..." Bri holds a dramatic pause, Wren is fixing her ribbons, "Thorin Oakenshield." Wren freezes.

"Oak and shield?" That was definitely a squeak.

"No, Oakenshield. As in shield made of oak. Like the Dark and Broodin's tattoo." Bri is suddenly pensive. "Oh lordy, I wonder why he played into the nonsense. Probably his way of tellin' the world to eff off." Wren groans and ponders curling in a ball on the bed. But then she thinks of a slag parade that probably went through it, and she takes a step away from it.

"Bri, how in the name of Rassilon do I manage to cock up every little thing in this place?" Bri shrugs, and Wren submits to her destiny. Oh poop indeed.

"This here ought to perk you right up, sugarplum..." Bri is rummaging in her shopping bags.

"Nothing can perk me up, Bri, I'm officially unperkable." Wren is feeling very sorry for herself, but then Bri opens a large flat package, and Wren reevaluates her previous statement. That. Is. Brill.

* * *

><p>Bri has already left the room where they were changing, and there are some chuffed voices in the hall, Fili probably has gotten a butcher's on his feek. No wonder, she is smashing in her purple dress, the sleeves actually look like wings, ace! There is that sleeveless thingie over the dress that peeps wear in medieval films, it's rich burgundy, and there is a gold chain for a belt. She is all curves and period appropriate hair, and Wren is suddenly having kittens.<p>

Wren should come out too, and she feels like at her audition to a dance school. It's ridiculous, it's not even a date, and who cares if the blokes outside this room don't fancy her clobber? OK, Wrennie, let's be honest here, one should be more worried if they actually do fancy her clobber. We have seen where it led. OK, Wren, repeat after yourself, you are a modern, independent woman, you can go to a do and not worry about anything but your own craic. Wren exhales sharply and jerks the door.

Yeah… She really should have been doing some mindful breathing exercises and not about her self-image but about what she is to do when she sees… that!

One of them looks like a cover for a harlequin novel, another like a character from Assassin's Creed. Shite. The Darker and Slightly Taller one is dressed in a pristine white shirt, puffy sleeves, and something that looks like a nicely cut waistcoat, black velvet, but Wren suspects it is called a doublet. There were doublets in the romance novels her Mum used to read. The black trousers are very, very tight, eyes above the waist, Leary, and the impeccable leather boots are hugging those very calves the way that makes Wren consider taking a bucket of ice water with her. He is holding a black mask in his hand, it will cover the top half of his face and his long nose, and it has ears. It's a Big Bad Wolf, and Wren can easily imagine how Red Riding Hood would not be disappointed to find this in her Nana's bed. Grandma, what deep voice you have! What big hands you have! What big… uhem...

The Younger and Lighter one is Doctor Plague. Even Wren knows what this long nosed mask is, he is wearing a long black coat, going down to the boots covered ankles, a row of small buttons going along all his impressive length, tight trousers underneath, and there is a wide belt and a leather holster over the coat, and why would a medieval doctor need a holster?! But Wren's fanny is not complaining.

Both of them are frozen like Lot's wife, their jaw slowly slacking, and she feels blush spilling on her cheekbones. It's like being under a stare of two boa constrictors. It is mildly mortifying to say the least.

"Help me Boab..." Frerin's voice is choked, and she bites into her bottom lip painfully. Thorin is silent, but by now she has realised he doesn't need many words to express himself. The waves of mental heat coming off him are a rather eloquent indicator of his mood.

"It will be my honour to accompany you to the shindig, m'lady," Balin steps ahead, in very regal red velvet, all according to the genre, and Wren exhales in relief.

"It will be my pleasure," she gives him her hand, and under the double stare of green and blue she leaves the room with Balin.

Oh, has Wren forgotten to mention? Bri gave her the best gift ever! It is a pair of the acest fairy wings in the history of fairy wings! They are green and light, made of wires and the most beautiful organza Wren has ever seen. Who cares that she'll have to deal with brotherly palava, she is feeling ace!

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><p>When Wren was a babby, her older brother would read her Walter Scott, he was into that stuff. She remembers nothing but thinks that the place looks like the halls Richard Lionheart and his evil brother Prince John, this one she only remembers as a thumb sucking lion, were hanging out in. The hall is humongous, archy wooden bars underneath the ceiling, a long table with medieval-ish food, Wren doubts Robin Hood fancied cantaloupe slices and chocolate covered strawberries. Oh god, chocolate covered strawberries. She gives them a hungry look and then catches a hungry look of Frerin on her giving a hungry look to strawberries. Run for your life, Wren! Alright, she did imagine eating one out of a male hand, and yes, he guessed. So what?! God, Wren needs a date. And no, not a dramalama one, like Bri calls it, a quiet one.<p>

"Shall we?" Thorin's voice pours into her ear, they are all indeed still standing by the door, and Wren dashes ahead dragging poor Balin behind her.

"Save me Gosh from a quine," mumbles poor Scottish Santa treading after her.

By the drinks they run into the scary arse Dwalin bloke, dressed as an executor, a giant axe and all, top half of the face covered by the mask slash hood, and he is nonchalantly chewing on a turkey leg. Wren would be able to use it as a bat, he is finishing the fourth one judging by the bones on his plate.

"By my beard!" Dwalin is eyeing both her and Balin. "Yer burd is a wean." And then his eyes fall on Wren's ginger mop, Bri has braided it with ribbons and flowers into a loose fishtail, and Dwalin's eyes narrow. "Ceann dearg?" _The redhead?_ Blimey, he obviously isn't her biggest fan.

"Allow me to introduce me wee brither, Dwalin MacFundin," Balin's voice is chuffed and he is smiling pleasantly, as if Dwalin were not trying to drill two holes in her head glaring at her throw the slits in his mask. And then the terrifying giant starts cackling.

"Hidin', are ye?" Wren nods guiltily, throwing a cautious look over her shoulder. The Dark and the Slightly Lighter are talking to some other barmy peeps by the table. And they are at the other end from the strawberries! Time for a swift attack and then retreat with her loot. She starts taking careful small steps sideways while the MacFundin brothers are discussing today's fight.

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><p>The task at hand turns out harder than she expected. The table is literally right over there, but her bloody costume is like syrup for overcrazed bees! She is being stopped, complimented and wooed, in several dialects of Gaelic, and a couple languages she is pretty sure are from some barmy fantasy books. At some point she bumps into a bloke with a matching costume, he has the Green Man mask and very skinny pins, and she politely sends him to the woods. The strawberries are calling for her, and she is once again gallantly refusing the advances of yet another swashbuckler. Would you look at that, there is a queue, and it's all the same faces. Well, costumes. A couple of Robin Hood wannabes, giving each other a stinky eye, underfed pirates, and whole bunch of the vaguely Renaissance blokes, tight trousers, silly wigs.<p>

In the course of a few minutes, and seriously, it feels like she is trying to reach the top of Mount Everest and not a table with sweets, she's been called 'a fae of me heart,' 'oh the magical nymph,' 'midsummer dream come true,' at least this one is clever and Shakespeare-ish, she's been compared to all possible flowers from the botany encyclopedia, and that spotty pirate over there has informed her that he "has sailed the seven seas, and she is the sleekest schooner he has ever sighted." That caused her to laugh, pat his shoulder, and finally! The strawberries! She sinks her teeth in a red juicy berry and closes her eyes in pleasure. She is going to allow herself all sort of rubbish food that is bad for you but oh so good for your senses today, and then tomorrow she is going to go back to being a good girl!..

"I don't even fancy strawberries, but that looks delicious," Frerin's voice makes her jump up, and her eyes fly open. Bugger. Will she see any peace today? She can see the green eyes twinkling through the mask, and the half chewed piece of strawberry is stuck in her throat. "So, what is the worst line you have heard today? Were you said to 'have scaled someone's battlements,' fair maiden?" Wren snorts. She doesn't want to, but he is hard to resist. There are low warm chuckles rumbling, and she bets eyebrows are wiggling under that mask.

"I was asked to lower my drawbridge," she is giggling and picks another strawberry. Oh blast, he has already seen it, and she really wants another one!

"Ouch, that's bad even for me!"

"What's your usual one?" Oh Wrennie, really? Are you daft? Sure, just step into his trap!

And of course he leans in, mindful of his giant hooter, she can see the grass green of the irises, and he rumbles, "Every second of every hour of every day and night I long for thee incessantly, my heart in immeasurable agony, as if stabbed with thousands of daggers, my soul craving thine..." Wren is nonchalantly chewing her strawberry. Yes, the voice does all the work. No, she is not thick. Also, she knows this trick.

"Are you going to say your loins are on fire and finish it with 'do you wanna shag?' Because if memory serves me right that is how this uber romantic pick up line usually ends." He freezes, and then there is another low chuckle under the mask.

"For me it's usually 'do you want to see my longsword in action?' but you get the point," since he was insistently leaning into her the whole time while weaving his sappy poppycock, and no, she is not affected, and no, her hands aren't clammy, he straightens up and is now looking at her down his long nose.

"Neat. But that jester over there told me he'd rather be beheaded, twice, than denied a date with me, that's what I call dedication," Wren emits a fake sigh pressing her hand to her chest, and the eyes under the mask dart towards the aforementioned jester. Oh poop. Apparently the jester, he is skinny and short, doesn't seem like much of a competition to the Tall and Honey Coloured, because she hears a disdainful 'nah.' And then he once again focuses all his pizzazz on her.

"Well, you already have a date. Tuesday evening, aye?" Oh, presuming much? And even so, he is no master and commander of hers! She doesn't owe him anything. The machismo and Neanderthal knuckle dragging possessiveness always make Wren very, very brassed off. She makes a step to him and dunks under the daft nose, seriously, how was he going to chat up chicks with this massive srón? And now she is standing very close and draws a swirl on his chest with the tips of her fingers.

"I do indeed have a date Tuesday evening..." That's purring, Wren didn't even know she could purr. The chest under her fingers rises in a deep inhale. "With you, if I am not wrong. And on Wednesday. With your brother, if I am not wrong again." There is a distinctive jerk of the whole six foot two body. "We are not, as they say here, exclusive, are we? Not before the first date of course, that would be mental." She aims for innocent tone, honest look, and a friendly smile, and she delivers. The eyes in the beaked mask narrow. What? Did he think if he runs around her and pees in the vicinity, she'll now be sitting in her tower, embroidering him a tunic and waiting for him to heroically arrive on his albino mare?

"A dance, m'lady?" The lower, darker, rumblier, and who cares that there is no word like that, distinctively Durinson voice makes her turn and give the Big and Bad an haughty smile. God, this whole wolf thing is really working for him, with the black beard, and the soft lips, and the velvet waistcoat thingie hugging his massive torso! Yum. Just like the long black coat and the hood on his brother. Oh poop.

"With pleasure," she puts her hand in his large palm and follows him to the dance floor.


	7. Frerin Be Nimble

"What are we dancing?" She hisses into the wide back of the Big and Bad, and damn his tight trousers!

"Red House." Well, that is easy. They teach it the first year in dance school, and also she was subjected to it numerous times in Nana's native town. Lots of walking around each other, throwing glances, not doing that, his husky eyes in the slits of the black mask are plain dangerous, and decorous short term hand holding. She can do it, yeah? Not much to worry about, yeah? Why is everything shaking inside then?

Bloody hell, a bloke of his size and width shouldn't be moving with the fluidity of a mercury drop and the grace of a prowling panther. Also she feels like yelling at him that this is a decorous dance and shouldn't be turned into a virtual shag on the dance floor, but she thinks other participants might be slightly surprised by her outburst. Seriously, the hand contact lasts three point two second, and yes, she bloody counted, and every time it feels like she poked an electric socket with a fork.

Also you would think a bloke who looked like a Nazi Second World War tank on the arena would look daft making little steps and then sliding his toes, and look at that! Half of the women in the hall are having a crisis. And no, Wren isn't keeping an eye on them! Jaysus. And um… She is pretty sure their hands are not supposed to brush when they do the walking around each other thingie, but it's OK, she guesses, it's only a mild electrocution, might get her synopses work better. Bloody hell, do they not have any AC in here?!

He picks up her hand, two steps ahead, a turn and then he starts walking, she is following him, damn his buttocks, hands meet again, the already familiar electroshock, buz-z-z-z, they turn, the ribbons of her trail brush around his calves, damn his calves as well, and nope, no imagining legs wrapping around him instead of the green ribbons, change of figure, now she can bet he is staring at her bum, and oooph… Every time he picks up her fingers it's like the first time, and he doesn't let go, he lets them slide out of his as they part, and oh… Let her out. Or in. But this tension is killing her! And it's not even a tango!

How long is this bloody dance? Feels like it's been years, and she is in such frenzy that she is only grateful for the automatic movements her body is doing. She makes another turn around a very clumsy Jester, and he is waiting for her on the end of her turn, his hands stretched to her, and Wren is a massive idiot as she is decides it's a brill idea to meet his eyes. Small step towards each other, small step back, left, right, eye contact still remaining, she might need a jog outside and a jump into that nice barrel she saw by the door, and the bloody Wren-killing dance is over. Bugger, so soon? What?! Shut up.

Bow, and no, don't kiss my hand! Bugger. That was like a lightning bolt, she might have Lichtenberg figures running from the spot on the back of her hand where his soft, delicious, orgasmic lips touched her skin. Shut up! He makes a very slight movement, he is so mellow and chill, he probably plays tennis without lifting his arms, and he clearly was going to offer her his hand to lead her back, but she propelled away from him, her ribbon skirt probably flailing on the wind like Road Runner's tail, and she really doesn't feel like saying 'beep, beep.' By now it's clear that A. He won't chase, not his cup of tea. B. She won't survive if he does.

She arrives, skirt thrashing, curls standing around her head, to her strawberries. Only to find Numero Duo smiling hungrily to her. Oh no.

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><p>Oh yes. "A dance, me darlin'?" Wrennie is desperately searching for Bri with her eyes, although by now it's clear the latter receives quite a lot of pleasure from watching Wren squirm. It's not Wren's fault! She didn't expect Sturm und Drang, whatever this expression means, her sister uses it a lot. She just flirted with two blokes without much expectations. She is not ready for... this! Oh the hell with it.<p>

"What are we dancing?" Seriously, Wren? At least come up with something else! You already feel like a trollop, at least try to make an effort to separate the two.

"Old bachelor, kennit?" Yes, she does, and thank goodness, less one on one time. Blimey, he has warm hands. All calloused from the sword, and wide, and definitely very yum once on her bum. What?! Shut up! And yes, Miss Fanny, I was talking to you.

Holding hands, twirling, the dance is slightly faster than she is used to, not that she is complaining, she feels very safe in his large, warm, delicious… Oh what is wrong with her?! The height difference is surprisingly not an aggro, and after a while she is relaxing and starting to enjoy it. Which leads to the consequences that she was trying to avoid with her life. The Wren-loves-to-dance-and-isn't-afraid-to-show-it movements. No, no, bum, hips and shoulders, stop it! No swaying and having fun! She can see the green eyes in the beaked mask to gleamer and roam, and no, it's not her, it's the extremities and the unassuming curves! She is not flirting! The music is faster and faster, and on the yet another turn he grabs her hands and swirls her, and they end up a bit to the side while the Old Bachelor continues, and she is pressed to his chest, and she is panting, and… oh poop.

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><p>Shut up! Shup up! Shut up! "You are quite agile for a hench bloke as you are." Oh why is she even trying? The gob is her bane.<p>

"I'm quite nimble, hen. And flexible," the muffled behind the hooter murmur is still working. Damn his buckwheat honey voice.

"I used to teach yoga, your flexible doesn't impress me." Sure, keep on digging your grave.

"Want a bet?" Of course not.

"Sure, why not?" The eyes behind the mask fire up, and… shite.

"A kiss of course, as an ante?"

"And what do I get?" Wren takes a step away from him, but, which is rather odd, it doesn't seem there is much more distance between them. And what's her hand doing on his serratus anterior, right over the ribs, and the drumming heart? God, he is hot!

"What does your heart desire, my lady?" Beats her, the fanny meanwhile has expressed itself quite clearly, but polygamy is still illegal in this state.

"I want your dirk." Judging by the frantic blinking behind the slits he indeed misheard her. But then the meaning reaches his poor randy brain.

"You can't have my blade, hen," there is much less laughter in his tone, and she snorts derisively.

"Fair enough. No bet then," she twirls on her heels, but he grabs her arm, gently given, and pulls her back. She gives him a defiant glare.

"Michty me, you are worth it," he is eyeing her, she is lifting one brow. And no, that is not a bloody butterfly fluttering in her stomach. "Come. I need witnesses for this bet. I'm not wagering my best chib for nothin'." Wren thinks it's more about parading it before his brother, but she is so certain she'll win she is fine with it.

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><p>Balin and Thorin witness the bet, and thank you, all deities, for the masks, she can't see the other men's expressions. As for Bri Wren is not looking at her best friend. The evil grin is there for sure, and Wren has seen it hundreds of times. Wren would rather share Bri's sniggering when the dagger thingie is hers. The bet is to be fulfilled after the next dance, and Wren is so chuffed about it that she gladly rushes to the dancefloor herself.<p>

It's Toss the Dutchess. It's the bog standard one, no biggie, the dance is rather simple and is also known as Toss the Wench. Yes, Wren gets the irony. She is guilt ridden of course, but at the moment adrenaline is coursing her veins, and she doesn't give a shite. Other Durinson related folk also comes at the dance floor, and Wren is momentarily mortified of the moment when she will reach Mister Scary Shite Mack MacFundin, and it's his turn to toss her. She wouldn't want to find herself hanging from that bar right above the ceiling like a cat on a curtain rail.

She obviously finds herself between Dark and Electrifying and Warm and Not So Nimble, and a small regret tugs at her heart. Since the whole point of the dance is chicks being tossed and moving around the circle, she might not even get a chance to be tossed by Thorin since they are to move away from him. There are plenty of peeps on the floor, and the circle is big. Alas, but can you do? Definitely one of the things to do is to suppress the memories of him removing her from her fence and his large hands almost encircling her around her ribs. Bugger.

The music starts, step, steps, steps, and… toss! Wow. Wow. What? Uhem… Frerin Walking Endorphin Durinson delivers. How can one grope in the course of a toss? And do it considerately, sexily and flirtily? Blimey, Wren is hot and bothered. Seriously, they definitely have some issues with AC here.

Music goes on, steps, steps, steps, and… What the actual…? She knows these orgasmic hands, and what?! The older Durinson was on the other side! What?! Word of the day apparently, because she really doesn't understand. And also her brain just conked out from his palms on her waist. She needs some Advil, she is running a fever.

OK, breathe, Wrennie, you are done with the scary part, now you can enjoy the dance. Who was there next, some cheery looking pirate? Steps, steps, steps… What the hell?! She is looking over her shoulder and into the laughing green eyes. But… But… Huh?

It takes her four of the tosses to suss out what the two plonkers are doing. They are snookering like there is no tomorrow, and she is in the hands of either of the two every single time, and after three times other blokes just started getting away from under their feet, considering that the Wolfie growls and Doctor Plague simply wedges them away with his monumental shoulder. Fili, and damn him, and good on you, Bri, is laughing and when it is his turn he simply steps back with a ceremonial exaggerated bow, which Frerin returns, and she is once again in the large warm hands. She accepts her destiny and is just taking measured breaths. It is like a roller coaster. Up, up, up, in warm solid hands of Lighter and Sunnier, and then plummet down with Dark and Intense. Good thing she has a healthy heart.

The cursed Toss the Wren is finally over, and she runs to the drinks table and topples a glass of apple cider into her throat. It feels like she just ran a sprint and is still not sure who won.

* * *

><p>"So, the bet, hen?" She turns away from the table and feels like screaming. She is surrounded! All the Durinsons and Co. are standing in a circle around her, Bri is tucked under Fili's arm, and how the hell did Wren end up in the center of attention again?! She assumed she'd quietly humiliate the younger from the Disturbing Duo in a corner and get his blade. But no, it's just that sort of day.<p>

The hell with it! She places the glass back with a decisive thud and gives her opponent a glare. He wants flexible? He'll get flexible. The pose is called Hummingbird, and involves several elements that are especially difficult for men. It involves a hand stand, not easy for blokes, open hips, same here, both legs in the air, one leg parallel to the ground, another bend, the ankle in front of the first knee, and basically no way in hell he can attempt to do it without looking like a moron. Men have trouble supporting their weight in the air no matter how strong they are. It's just the matter of anatomy. To say nothing of the fact that it took her five years to manage it. And she was in India, learning from a real yogi at the time.

She gives him the smug stare, goes down into a forward bend, bringing the palms of the hands to the floor, bends the right leg and twists her torso to the right, walking her hands over until the palms come in front of the right foot. She then bends her elbows down to chaturanga position and brings the sole of her left foot onto the shelf created by her left upper arm, and then she brings the right thigh to rest on the left upper arm as well. And now, tip forward, bringing her weight into her arms as the right leg straightens out to the side and right foot leaves the floor. Basically she is holding her body in the air on her hands. Google it, it's ace.

She shortly wonders which one of the two brothers just made this low rumbly noise in his throat, and she slowly comes out of the pose and stands up.

"Do it, and I'll kiss you," she is so enjoying his flabberghasted face. Well, the mask and the eyes look flabbergasted. A small crowd that they apparently gathered and she hasn't noticed is applauding, and then he drops his hood and takes off the mask. He is frowning, probably in the anticipation of the humiliation and trying to remember at least the first step. She has to concede though that him flexing his shoulders and twisting his torso in preparation looks so good that she almost feels sorry for him.

And then he executes the best Hummingbird she has ever seen done by a person with a penis.

She is so shocked that her thoughts don't even linger on the aforementioned organ. She is still watching him with her mouth half open when he ungracefully plops on his arse and grumbles, "Crikey, woman, how did you untangle out of it so beautifully?"

She runs up to him and gives his rock hard hip a rather sensitive kick. He yelps loudly, the crowd is roaring with laughter, she starts battering his head.

"You bastard! You cheated!"

"I did not!" She gives another kick, she is livid, and he is moaning theatrically shielding his head.

"How many years of yoga did you do? Bastard! Gombeen! Fealltach mí-ionraic maggot!" She is so pissed off she didn't notice how she switched to Gaelic.

"Not a single one! Ouch, love! You are murdering me here!"

"High falutin prick!" Smack, smack, smack, she is so angry with him!

"I swear I didn't even know if I could do it! Ouch! I am very flexible but that was a hell of a task. Ouch! Lovie..." Wren emits a rather convincing growl and stomps away from him.

Minging neddy! Stupid tool! And yes, Wrennie, I am talking to you! Jaysus, how many times in one day can you cock everything up like that?! She rushes outside and is angrily kicking some innocent weaved basket, when the source of her frustration steps out of the doors.


	8. Frerin Went A-Courting

"Is it safe to come at ye, love?" He is holding the long-nosed mask in his hand, and despite her expectations he doesn't look smug. Well, maybe just a bit. She makes a half-growl, half-hiss sound. Her Nana used to call it "bold puisín," which means a naughty kitten. Nana always has plenty of moggies, she knows all about them.

"Are you going to drag me back inside to perform before the whole crowd, like your brother did on the arena?" She is sneering at him, and he gives her a wide smile.

"Ye dinna maun to kiss me, hen. The face you had wis worth it." She is glaring at him, he is grinning. There is one more thing that annoys her in him, besides the obvious, which is that he just humiliated her in front of everyone. And his brohter now thinks they are snogging outside. Bugger. At least that one aggro she can ask about.

"Why is you accent so iffy? On one moment, off the other?" He gives out a short bark of laughter.

"What about your'n?" See, that's what Wren is talking about! Now he sounds like he grew up next door to Bri. "Your Limey accent's as put upon as you took our fight for." Damn his noggin. Not thick, is he? "You switch to Gaelic when you're truly pissed off, which says that's what you're born to, but the rest of the time..." He makes a step to her and is looking at her down his glorious nose. Oh. "Rest of the time you're just bein' uppity, shug." She narrows her eyes at him, and he is leaning, and she is surprisingly not moving away, and his lips are near her ear. "Do you swap over to Gaelic when het up with some other feelin's?"

A. This is the first time in her life Wren finds local drawl sexy. Somehow it just didn't work for her all these years, which is daft, to think of it, she lives here six months per year. B. His cheek is that close. She slowly turns and rubs the tip of her nose to the beard. Wow, it's soft.

"I do." He is easy to flirt with, but that is beyond flirting. Why exactly is she doing this? She has a date with him on Tuesday, and her next words are not even second date material. "I do tend to scream 'níos mó' and 'níos doimhne'..." Yeah, 'more' and 'deeper' are additionally inappropriate in Gaelic. The massive arms wrap around her, and he is studying her nose.

"You are pure dead brilliant, aren't you?" She has a snarky remark, but then suddenly she chokes on it and tries to pull back. He lets go, and she leans back on the railing of the porch heavily. She is knackered.

"Not really, it's just today is mental..." He comes up and leans as well. Seriously, no understanding of personal space! He bumps his shoulder to hers and smiles widely again.

"Come, love, let's go inside. Everyone thinks we are nipping 'ere." She gives him a confused look. He makes funny kissing noises puckering his lips, and she doesn't want to, but snorts. He bends down and stuffs his cheek close to her face. "One peck, hen, and we are even." Oh bloody hell. That's a deja-vu if she has ever had one.

So, what was that those whiny Les Miserables were singing? Freedom, equality, brotherhood? Well, equality for brotherhood then. She grabs his head and pulls him into a snog. Funnily enough although this one is supposed to be a stud and a wolf, while his brother is more of a 'going stable' type of a bloke, the Golden and Scrumptious is still frozen under her hands after a few seconds, while by then his brother has already been testing the flexibility of her spine and whether she was in any danger of tonsillitis. That's odd. And alarming. She couldn't have misread it, yeah? It has never happened before, she is never that forward, and if she is ever surprise snogging, she is usually the surprised one. She is already planning to move away, and her mind is frantically wondering if she crawls under this porch and decides to live there forever whether the faire peeps are going to be kind enough to feed her occasionally, when his hands lie on her back and he starts reciprocating. Thank Rassilon and all High Counsil of Gallifrey!

It's just starting to heat up when there is a polite cough behind. Please, please, let it be anybody but the other one! Phew, it's just Fili.

"Bri sent me to remind you it's John Tallis Canon time, and we need two more people for the figure." Uncle and the nephew exchange looks, and she understands who is the favourite uncle here. Oh god, she haven't thought of it before, but Fili is probably for the keeps now, and one way or another she'll hurt his uncle's feelings. Well, if feelings are involved by then. Not for this one probably, but the other one seemed way too hard for a one-off thing. Oh bugger.

* * *

><p>She dances the Canon, and two more, and mostly she manages to avoid either of them, but then it's Hole in the Wall time, and she is chewing another strawberry, and she honestly has no more energy to juggle them, Bri bouncing by once again comments on 'their tongues lolling,' and Wren groans. She turns her head and chokes on the fruit. This time they decided to finish her. Since both of them are standing in front of her. She gulps. It's like Sub-Zero and Reptile are staring her down together, and Babality is coming.<p>

The logical thing follows. The fearsome and uncontrollable ginger snap. The kettle has overheated, and a hysterical whistle can probably be heard two states North! She grabs the sleeves of both of them and starts dragging them after her outside. If either decides to argue, she is going to cut him under his feet, and then toboggan their sorry arses out of the shindig. None does. She pushes them both out to the porch and closes the door behind her tightly.

"That's it!" Her voice is shrieky, she pokes both chests with an index finger each, and ouch, are they made of marble? "I have had it! I'm exhausted, and that has to stop!"

"But, love..." That is obviously the Nosey talking, the Howling Beast is quiet as usual.

"Belt it, Durinson! I. Am. Talking!" She gives them her best impersonation of Eleven in Stonehenge and pushes them both their backs to the wall. She starts pacing in front of them. "I am tired of being treated like a frisbee and tossed back and forth. I am so twitchy, I'm spilling my drinks. You both have your dates, now let me dance to my own pleasure! I'm not a bloody trophy!" The last phrase is yelled into their faces, well, masks.

The Wolf turns to the Hooter, there is silent communication between two pairs of eyes. Huh, so there is a way to communicate with the Silent One. No wonder, they have had years to practise.

"Well?" She doesn't have years to practise. "If either of you wants to take me out for dinner next week, no asking me to dance," she starts curling up her fingers, "No snogging. No parading. No phone calls and texts except with date and time confirmation. No emails. No letter in a bottle. No pigeon mail." She frantically tries to recall other means of communication. "No serenading under my window." There is a quiet, clearly disappointed 'crivvens' from under the long nosed mask, and it makes her ask herself how much of his behaviour is acting in general.

She receives the nod from the Muzzle, and after a pause and a glare another one from the Beak. She turns on her heels and regally leaves.

* * *

><p>Wren dances couple more dances, one with Balin, another one surprisingly with Mr. Human Mountain, and who would guess he even can do more than walking stiffly and growling? And then Bri invites her to do the Maltese, which Wren should be apprehensive of, but the daft cow as she is, she thinks she can control her hips, and hello, at some point she catches a double stare that feels like she is being treated by a flamethrower, squeaks, and after the dance she realises that is her limit. She comes up to Bri who has just finished a short conversation with Fili, and the bloke is so hot and bothered that one could possibly light a fag on his flaming cheeks, Bri does know what to do with what deities gifted her with, especially during the Maltese, and Wren says she is calling a cab. That's it. Finito. The day has been barmy, and now Wren wants to fall on her bed and turn off her noggin.<p>

Dwalin MacFundin, the Scariest of Them All Scots Here, offers her a ride. What the…? Honestly, when a giant bloke with a suspiciously real looking axe on his shoulder growls, "A guid rin?" him offering to drive you nicely home is not exactly what you think he is saying. But then she remembers he lives in the same apartments near the faire, which means he is doing her a big favour, and she is so shocked that she just nods.

* * *

><p>That is indubitably the biggest truck she has seen in her life, and that is given she does live here, and many men here tend to compensate. In the words of Bri Davis, holy hannah! It is also a dualie, she has to bite into her lip not to giggle daftly on the phonetics of it, and she freezes in front of the passenger door. With the slight exaggeration she can say she is staring at the step. She hears chuckling above her and looks at her benefactor from the corner of her eye. He took off his mask slash hood, and the axe is thankfully gone, and he opens the door, she braces herself because she knows what comes next, and he picks her up and deposits her rigid body inside. The door bangs, and he is walking around the bonnet of the truck. Considering the size of the car, she might have enough time to take a nap before he arrives.<p>

She gives him the address, and they are driving in tense silence. It might not be tense, Wren is tense, maybe the scowl she is seeing for him is just a resting face. She is dangling her feet, they predictably do not reach the floor, and wonders what's cooking in that bald noggin of his. And then she sees a tattoo around his right wrist.

"That's An Caighdeán_, _Irish Gaeilge!_ An rud is annamh is íontach_. What is seldom is wonderful. My Nana loves this expression. She uses it towards my dating of course, but you probably have it for some completely other reason…" Her voice dies out, and her nose is twitching. Yeah, Wren, apparently you decided that the day isn't over yet and that is your last chance to get in another barney because of your gob.

"Ye caw the crack, do ye no?" Hm, she does, or doesn't, depends on what the sodding hell it means.

"Sorry?"

"Talk. Ye talk muckle feck." She can't suppress a hysterical giggle.

"You don't say. Why do you think this day is such a palava? Because I blether."

"Nah," he smirks, "The dunderheids just fancy gingers." Great, basically the rest doesn't matter, just the tone of the hair. Brilliant. He sees her long face and apparently decides to cheer her up. "Don't tak dods. They'd give up after the rammy if ye were just a bonnie fizzog." Hm, so not just a 'pretty face' for them? She guesses, she'll find out on Tuesday and Thursday.

He drops her off by her place, and while she is trying to climb out of the tank he calls a car, he suddenly says, "I had an Irish hen. In uni. The tat was fer her." Wren freezes, her lower half hanging out of the truck, for the last seven seconds she was trying to feel the ground with her toes. "Bonnie. Ruadh." Oh, so the love for redhead is not just a Durinson thing? She is staring at him, her bum still suspended over the edge of the seat, and he throws her an impish look from the corner of his eye.

"What happened? Did you break up? Oh god, did she die?" Oh shut up already. She lets go of the seat in terror, slides back and now she is standing in the open door, eyes twice the size, and hands fisted.

"Yer tongue gangs like a lamm's tail," he is shaking his head, but doesn't seem pissed off. Phew, so she didn't die in some tragic circumstances only to make this conversation even more awkwards. "Tae split up. Picked a Durinson over me."

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Why does it have to be an Irish chick torn between him and a Durinson?! Why not some lovely Spanish beauty that chose her career of a genius neurosurgeon over being his hen?! He grumbles something that was probably a good bye, she squeaks hers back, and rushes inside.

* * *

><p>OK, OK, no more Scots, no more sibling rivalry, Wren is pulling the ribbons out of her hair and is washing off the mascara, when the phone rings. It's her sister, and they chat a bit. It's quite useless to speak to Lin about men, they are not quite her cup of tea, but she listens. And it really helps to put your aggro into words, yeah?<p>

"So which one are you more inclined to choose at the moment?" Lin's calm voice on the other end is mixed with crunching crisps that she is doing at the moment. Wren wonders if for her sister she is an equivalent of telly that Lin doesn't watch.

"I don't know," Wren stretches her tired back on the bed and is staring at the ceiling. "I'm going to go out with each, and if they both are still interested I'll choose."

"I approve of the scientific approach, Wren, but remember what Nana always says. An rud a líonas an tsúil líonann sé an croí." Wren sighs and smacks her pillow into her face.

"What fills the eye fills the heart, I know," she mumbles from under there and then resurfaces.

"Try to remain objective." Yeah, that shows you how much Lin knows about men. And she didn't see these two! There is no bloody way to stay objective here! Lin hangs up, and Wren groans. She will survive, she will stay alive, and humming Gloria's undying hit Wren falls asleep.


	9. Sing a Song of Suspence

Wren climbs off her bike, and locking it to the parking frame she fixes the straps of her backpack. OK, Wrennie, back into the lion's den. The faire is rushing and roaring around her, and Wren gulps like Jerry when faced with that round grey muzzle. She is wearing wide harem yoga pants, she assumes she'll have to go to her class right from here, and a tight crop top, but maybe she should quickly go and borrow a potato sack from that vendour over there. Nah, she'll be fine, she just needs to find Bri and keep low profile. They will perform, and she will hide in some shrubbery. She will cheer for Bri, send her a text and meet her for lunch in the bloody furthest from them corner of the faire. She assumes they are already somewhere at the stage, and she creeps to their tent to meet Bri there.

Sodding mother of monkeys! She is frozen by the entrance faced with the spectacle that no woman alive should be subjected to. Under any circumstances. Not without thorough preparation consisting of breathing exercises, meditation and an ice bath. Thorin I-Wear-A-Simple-Tunic-But-Your-Ovaries-Are-Still-Kaputt Durinson is laughing loudly and openly. Surrounded by a dozen ten year olds. A sprog hanging on each of his lifted arms, biceps bulging, the kids' skinny legs swinging in the air. Wren quickly looks behind her, she is going to faint now, she needs some safe soft surface.

"I want to climb too!" A blonde girl with pigtail is stretching her arms to him, Wren can relate, but her current ideas are much less innocent, and he scoots, the lucky bairn grabs him around his neck, and he stands up. And then turns and sees Wren. The children are squealing, Wren is panting, and Frerin's voice from behind is not even a surprise. Of course he just had to come right now!

"OK, me darlins, who wants to see a real Scottish sheaf toss? As demonstrate by my nephew Fili?" OK, great, Fili tossing a giant sack of straw with a pitchfork. Poor Bri. Fili, sack, straw, toss. Tst, tst, yeah, Bri is probably no more.

As is Wren, because the children are cheering and do want to go outside, but they want their new big friend too, so they are pulling at the kilt of Dark and Too-Good-With-Children-For-Wren's-Sanity, whining "Please, Uncle Thorin, come with us!" While Wren is trying to control her salivation over the crinkles in the corner of his eyes and the smile that can melt the last ice in Churchill, Manitoba, poor polar bears, a long arm goes around her shoulder and warm lips are pressed to her cheek.

"Morning, hen, came for the performance?" Wren skews her eyes and meets Frerin's bright green peepers.

"Morning," squeak, squeak, Wren wasn't ready for the citrusy scent of his skin and golden flakes dancing in the eyes, "I'm just here for Bri."

"Brill, see you by the stage later," he is smiling sunnily, and children are finally herded to go outside. He picks up two around their middles, more happy squealing ensues, and he leaves like the best of motherhens followed by his happy chicks. Oh Wren just can't stand this anymore! Can they stop being equally mindblowing?!

"Morning." Aaahhhh! There is some strange reaction in Wren's body to this voice, like a simultaneous spasm in all of her muscles. Yeah, one doesn't need practise dhyana to achieve samadhi with him. He can just read the list of ingredients on a water bottle, and a person is out in space. Water, says Dark and Eyebrow Hiking, and thud. Wren mumbles something that sounds like "mrng" and darts outside.

And into a rock hard chest of the youngest Durinson. Thank goodness. This one affects her even less than Bri's Blonde and Brilliantly Smiling. Damn Bri's alliterations, so contagious. At least towards Fili Wren has sisterly affection, this one is a prick. Wren hisses a 'hello' and struts by him. Maybe Reese ended up with a better bloke, but this one is still a prick.

* * *

><p>Outside Fili is explaining to the kids, safely standing behind a fence away from him, that he is going to toss this sack with this pitchfork, over the horizontal bar he is pointing at above his head, and judging by Bri's glassy eyes she can't hear the lecture. Wren's best mate is sitting on the fence a bit to the side, and Wren leans on the fence near her.<p>

"Is it a school field trip?" Bri jerks, she was completely absorbed into staring at the golden muscular torso, and yeah, maybe he is not male for Wren, mates over dates and such, but damn those are fine triceps brachii and latissimus dorsi. And Wren wonders whether taking off his shirt was that necessary. He has his younger uncle's build, longer leaner muscles than Dark and Egg Producing, golden hair covering the chest, and the funny thing is that Wren has seen sheaf toss at home. In Ireland it involves rushes with bailing twine but the principle is the same. And Wren remembers the movement it involves, yeah, the kilt will really hike up. Should she take Bri off the fence just in case of a lust induced dropsie?

Bri endures the flailing kilt as a trooper, meaning she makes a funny little sound in her throat and the knuckles of her hands clenching the fence are white.

Oh, the faire is actually fun when it's not Wren who has to go through spasmodic suppressing of primal urges. Children are very happy, and Wren is purposefully not looking at bunches of them hanging on both uncles, like Christmas decorations, one sprog is sitting on the shoulders of Light and Lively, two are cozily tucked under the massive arms of Dark and Delicious like rugby balls. The kids' teacher, skinny and enamoured with everything happening around him, is widely gesturing explaining to children that the typical weight of the bag is 16 pounds, and each competitor is to cleanly throw it over the bar, without touching it. After all challengers have made their attempts, the bar is raised and all successful competitors move on to the new height. This continues until all but one athlete is eliminated. Fili throws, Bri sharply exhales, the bar is raised, the Blonde and Bubbly is laughing. The sack flies up, Bri's mind is clearly plummeting in the opposite direction and straight down to her gutter, Wren giggles.

"How are you feeling, love?" Wren's fake sympathetic voice gains her the Bri Glare. It can stop locomotives and enraged bulls, but hasn't worked on Wren since three minutes into their friendship, which was about two decades ago. Once Wren figured out the curly rascal of a girl was a big softie, the Glare only has been making Wren laugh harder.

Karma gets back at Wren pretty quickly. Like a boomerang to the back of her head. They might not have enough room on their lawn slash arena thing to perform the other marvels of Highland games fully, but a bit of demonstration is apparently in order. Yeah, Frerin swinging the Scottish hammer above his head, or Thorin balancing the giant pine pole in his hands to illustrate the lecture on caber toss make Wren slightly uncomfortable. Meaning she can't stand on her jelly legs and is pretty much hanging over the fence. The kilts do fly up again, and Wren requires refreshments. Arctic ocean perhaps? Bri is sniggering, but not for long. Fili comes out from around the fence carrying a basket of foam copies of the weaponry, children rush to him, he is smiling, and that's the last nail into the coffin of Briallen Davis. She jumps off the fence like a freaked out cat, grabs Wren's hand and starts dragging her away.

"Lunch, Wren, we need lunch." Lunch at ten in the morning? More like distance from all this glorious machismo, but Wren won't argue. Thorin has just smiled to some little girl after she thumped him to the head with a foam claymore. Definitely lunch time!

* * *

><p>"Can I watch your performance from some far away roof through a telescope, Bri?" Wren is chewing a scone. It is good, almost like her Nana's, produced by the same guy who made the famous scotch eggs they enjoyed on Saturday. Bri refrained, saying 'why give her tummy ammo to hurl?' She is sipping jasmine tea to calm her nerves.<p>

"Nope. If I have to endure this show I want you up front'n center cheerin' for me," Bri is a bit pale, and Wren understands her mate is bricking it.

"Bri, you'll be great. Common, you practised with them yesterday, you are ready, and again, the blokes are pro's, you told me that yourself. If you stumble, they'll help you out. But you won't!" Wren grabs her friends hands, "I have absolute faith in your talent! And pizzazz! Especially your pizzazz!" Bri giggles against her will, and Wren is smiling to her widely. "Common, you just go there and have fun. And show those testosterone filled Neanderthals the queen and goddess you are! OK, mate?" Bri decisively nods, and Wren understands the Durinsons don't stand a chance. From now on they will be known as some obscure background for Briallen Davis. "That's my girl! Now let's go, kick their glorious arses." A wistful sigh tells Wren what Bri is thinking. Yeah, Wren might be thinking about other backsides, but yeah… Damn the genetics in this family!

* * *

><p>Wren in twenty something years she's known Bri has heard her sing but she has never seen anything like… this! Wren knows the two main elements of a brilliant performance are discipline and passion, and the four blokes and Bri the Bedazzling are demonstrating the galoure of both. Bri mentioned that Dark and Dangerous was a wee bit of a Hitler when it came to getting it just right during the rehearsals, but Wren herself is a bit anal when it comes to something that matters and requires a skill. She'd say their efforts paid off. She can't tell whether the notes are right but dear me, it feels smooth! Considering the frenzy the crowd swiftly slips into, the music and singing must be ace! Wren is enjoying the rhythm…<p>

...and the way Fili's eyes are reminiscent of laser beams, properly glued to Bri. Wren giggles. Bri can't see, she is all absorbed in being awesome, but jaysus, the boy is really uncomfortable.

And then Wren is equally uncomfortable. God, she might not know which brother and might be sure which voice, but both of them, in perfect harmony, two velvet brogues intertwining, Fili and Kili joining in, and then Bri's clear voiced added it, and Wren is once again a massive idiot to meet the glacial blue. Gulp. She jerks, shifts her eyes, and… hello, grass green and mischievous. Oh sod it all!

The song is over, Wren exhales, and then it's the _Scarborough Fair_, Wren is familiar with it, but this time it's different. For those in the crowd who didn't know what eighth wonder of the world Brili is, and yes, we are officially using this term now, the next skit slash duet becomes a loud testament that these two are a match made in heaven.

There is a cheerful bickering, both performances are perfect, they overact on purpose, the crowd is roaring with laughter and then wolf whistles, she is flirtatious, he is enamoured, and then they voices join in a unison that even Wren understands is the excellence in its finest form. _And then you'll be a true love of mine…_

Wren feels like jumping and yelling the classic Internet "And now kiss!" but she is not that cruel. Bri is managing public attention amazingly right now, but Wren wouldn't want to cause any aggro. On the other hand judging by the looks these two are throwing each other, they can manage that on their own just fine. Damn the weather in this state, so hot!

* * *

><p>The crowd is still yelling and stomping and clapping, Wren might be the loudest, while the Queen of Durinson Musicland and her minions are smiling and bowing again and again. They pick up their instruments, Bri points at that mental box that sounds as if it's an Iron Maiden for a cat, Thorin smiles and yells something into her ear, she laughs loudly, he picks it up, and Wren turns away not to ogle the white teeth and the black beard, and she looks away from the stage to avoid noticing the other one. The bedroom eyes and the wink from him, his fingers sensually caressing a mandolin, that made her consider a small dip in a pond afterwards were more than enough, thank you very much. And then Wren sees the next band coming up the stage.<p>

First thing she notices is the front man. He is hard to miss, and even as overdosed as she is on testosterone these days, no one can ignore… all this. All this Viking like clobber is really working for his triangle build, wide shoulders, narrow hips, shaggy hair frames a masculine face, and the cheekbones… Mamma mia! He leaps up on the stage, has he seen the stairs? And Dark and Dangerous clasps hands with him. There is a lot of macho hand shaking and shoulder clapping with other hands, sodding alpha males. OK, she might be just bladdered from their combined hotness, it is almost uncomfortable. They obviously like each other, maybe they are even mates, and if she chooses Dark and Delicious she will have to really scale down her ogling of this hottie. She doubts Durinsons share well.

Other three in the band are a hilariously assorted bunch. One short and completely square, a mane of bushy red hair, braids and other pseudo Viking rubbish, thick beard, and Wren never liked facial hair before that black beard over there, or that golden one that is orgasmically soft… OK, Wren is digressing. And then she is shortly distracted by the next band member going up the stairs. Because before all these wide and muscular Scots happened in Wren's life, she has always prefered that type. Tall, lithe, lean, wide shoulders, miniscule waist, this one is blonde though, not her cup of tea, but OK, just look at those buttocks! He is also beautiful like all god's angels combined, gorgeous nose, bright blue eyes, Cupid bow lips.

Wren can see the back of the fourth one, he is talking to one of the organizers at the bottom of the stage, and definitely yum to these shoulders and hips, and then he turns, wide radiant smile on his face, and all Wren can say is 'Oh poop!'

Sean O'Borough, in all his six feet of mind blowing sexiness and temper of their shared ethnical background, green eyes and that fit hooter of his, is sauntering with a lute on his back. Yeah, this day has officially just become the execution date of Bri Davis. Wren and her brothers palava have nothing to match the aggro Bri will find herself in three, two, one…

Bri turns, still with a wide smile on her face, she has just received a low flamboyant bow from Frerin, and her eyes fall on the quickly dropping face of her ex. Oh poop indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: How are we liking the new addition to the cast of this mad story, my darlings? ;) **

**To find out how Bri is going to handle this curveball, please, proceed to ****Wynni****'s page. The Bri/ Sean (wink wink)/ Fili conundrum will be resolved in her side of the fic, **_**All's Faire in Love and War.**_


	10. This Little Brother

What would you wear to your first date with a New Age Viking, which is basically a grown up man wearing a skirt and running around with a giant toy sword and taking all this rubbish seriously? You would think, just throw some rag on, lots of beads, maybe a horned helmet, to tickle his pickle, he doesn't know any better! And you would be so very wrong...

It's Tuesday, date with the Light and Lively, and Wren is standing in front of the mirror in her best strapless dress, champagne coloured lace, silk ribbon for a belt, strappy golden sandals, and is trying to push the stubborn earrings into her poor, poor lobes.

"Holy Hannah!.." Bri is impersonating Munch's Scream in the doorway. Wren's hands are shaking. "Here, let me before you bleed out, sheesh." Bri picks up the dangly earring and saves Wren from death by lacerations. "Jeebus, shug, haven't seen you this gussied up in a coon's age. You're gorgeous."

"He is taking me to _The Chat Noir,_" Wren squawks, Bri drops the second earring.

"How?!" Wren shares Bri's shock. There is a waiting list for three months to that bloody Frogmen restaurant. The place is fancy, and is the bloke minted? With her student loan Wren would be able to afford an olive there. Not the stuffed kind, that would be too much.

"Apparently the nephew of the manager is into that stuff… The one you are into, and for the record, I am never attending any of your barmy faires again unless you are singing, because I still have nightmares of them trying to end each other in with massive weaponry."

"Me n'you both, sister. And thanks for roping me into the gig with the unbalanced duo."

"Oh, don't be a billy-no-mates, you were brill, and you loved it! Well, the ending was unexpected..." Wren throws Bri an impish look, her friend huffs air in irritation, it's obviously aimed at the unwelcomed snogging ex and not Wren, and then Bri steps back and is scanning Wren's appearance. The dress has a nice puffy skirt, and Wren is wearing a neat cuff bracelet and has a matching clutch. And still Bri is frowning. Wren wonders if there is a spot and start twirling trying to see her bum.

"Have you considered a less tempting wrapper for your goodies, darlin'?" Oh, phew, so everything is fine with the dress.

"Well, the bloke made an effort, and I don't want to look like a cheap chav in that place." Wren looks at her hair and sighs. She made a nice low bun, but the curls have already escaped and each one of the cursed orange springs is dancing to its own song. "God, I hope he is properly dressed, otherwise I'll fake vomit after salad and will call a cab."

* * *

><p>The bloke is properly dressed. Even the properly enamoured Bri makes an odd choked sound when she opens the door and sees… that. Wren immediately stops feeling overdressed. The three piece suit is dark grey, the tie is perfectly silky, and the knot is just the right size, and has Wrennie mentioned she has a suit kink and knows everything about 'stiffer chest canvas' and 'thicker shoulder pads'? Although these shoulders hardly require pads, and the chest… Wren gulps. Also, that is a British cut suit, which makes sense with his mental V shape. The trousers are generally more fitted and narrower on the thighs when Brits are in charge, and does he go to a bloody Italian tailor? The lapel notches are a wee bit too high, which makes him look so much better, but also... dangerous. Oh, this is properly dangerous, this is here, ladies and jellybeans, a walking 'since I live only once, I'll indulge' inducer.<p>

He is also holding a bouquet of champagne coloured roses, almost a perfect match to the colour of her dress, makes sense, he is wooing a redhead, but still… swoon. Bugger, Wren promised herself she wouldn't fall for any of his tricks. Remember, Wrennie, she said to herself an hour ago, while putting mascara that is currently eating at her eyeballs, he has done that hundred times, and then he had lunch, and continued. Nothing is working, there are daft butterflies in the stomach, and she feels like a princess. Damn his charm. The sincere admiration in the green eyes isn't helping her reserve either.

"I am bedazzled." God, he sounds sincere. Repeat after me, Wren, he has been practicing this pouty-lips-bedroom-eyes look since he was twelve when the first of us daft birds started panting and battering lashes from his proximity.

"Thank you," she gives him a plastic smile. Seriously, there is something wrong with genes in this family, some sort of dark magic or whatever, she should ask Bri, she would know, but that is the setup of a romantic novel, and it should be T rated, and Taylor Swift should be playing at the background, and instead of romantic palpitations, all she can think of is unbuttoning that waistcoat she can see under the jacket, which by the way is already swinging on a chandelier in this scenario, and that gainsboro shirt is the next in the line for the execution. Wren spasmodically clenches her clutch.

"And for the bonnie frein," in the hand that he was hiding behind his back is a small posy of dog violets. Damn it, he is good. He is obviously trying to gain points with Wren, but also that is a hell of a skill! A. Bri adores purple. But she is not a nutter, she isn't dressed in it head to toe, it demands a wee bit of observational skill to catch it. B. The little cute bouquet is tasteful, but isn't hinting on romantic feelings. The perfect choice for the best friend. And C. Why does she have a feeling he is simultaneously trying to rub Fili's nose into how fancy he is?

Wren passes the roses to Bri, she might be holding her breath, he has switched from the whole pseudo medieval myrtle soap to Hugo Boss, and Wren's fanny is in frenzy. Alright, let's try getting through this dinner without making one of the three possible biggest mistakes of our life, Wren. Option One, jumping him, let's face it, it's all she is thinking about, and falling for him, and consequently, once he disappears on the horizon in the morning, spending the next month licking wounds, rewatching _Doctor Who_ Rory and Amy era and eating a lot of butterscotch ice cream in her PJs. Option Two, jumping him, because see above, not falling for him, but obviously bodging up her chances with his brother, because yes, she agreed to go out with both of them but she is no slag. Option Three… what if in the morning he doesn't disappear on the horizon? This one scares her most of all.

* * *

><p>For the last half an hour they have been talking about the origins of their names, his lineage and how though he has family money ren faires apparently allow one live very much relaxed money wise, apparently many want to purchase real swords, who'd know, he is also sipping water to support her ginger abstinence, and the prevailing feeling in her is "what the hell?!" He is polite, considerate, endlessly witty… and proper. He is so proper her teeth are squeaking from all this purity.<p>

Also, her Arctic char stuffed with a lobster gruyère, with potato mousseline over a lemon verbena sauce, is horrible. Not as in poorly cooked, but it's just not working for her. She pokes it with her fork and ponders the childhood trick, when you break and mush everything on your plate so that the Inquisitor that is your Nana can't figure out how much you have actually eaten. Never worked with Nana though. And then suddenly he stretches his long arm and switches their plates. The speed is astonishing, and she is staring at his chicken stuffed with lingonberries and cambozola. She lifts her eyes at him, and he gives her a warm smile.

"I'd offer you to order something else, but something tells me you already feel very uncomfortable." He is so bloody beautiful, when he isn't playing his Don Juan card, and also not trying to kill his brother with some prolonged object, that she blinks frantically several times and leans over the table. He leans too, their noses are almost touching. Why do posh restaurants always have ickle tables?

"I hate this posh place. And as gorgeous as you look in a suit, I'd honestly prefer to run away from here and go have some sausage waffles in the bakery on the Promenade. Preferably after I can change out of the instruments of torture that are my shoes, into some denim and a tee."

The wide smile, white teeth and little crinkles in the corners of his eyes hit her like a demolition ball, she doesn't even object when he cups the back of her head and places a firm, very masculine kiss on her cheek.

"I love you." She is blinking, strange orange dots dancing in front of her eyes. Surely, he… Um… What?.. Um… He is laughing, lets her go and starts waving, calling a waiter. "We are getting out of 'ere, hen."

* * *

><p>They return to her flat, they knock, and Bri opens the door. She is giving them a surprised look, there is an icing covered spatula in her hand, Wren propels into her room, pushing the box into Bri's hands.<p>

"We have change of plans, and here is the poshest smart arse food you have ever tried." Frerin is chuckling behind. He has a bag of extra clothes in his hands, and even though Wren knows it's kept in his boot for occasional one-offs, and waking up in a random bed of a random slag, Wren doesn't care. She is no nun herself.

"It is also pretty much badderelocks," his brogue is really working here. Wren laughs jumping on one foot, pulling off the grotty sandals. "Can I borrow your washroom to change?"

"Only if'n you bring it back this time." Wren can bet Bri got the best Durinson grin and wink for that.

Wren quickly closes the door behind her and rummages through her wardrobe. If before she was dressing for the restaurant, this time she is doing it for the man. Lace mini dress? Too much. Shorts and a tee? Too little. Common, common, noggin, work! What will say 'I fancy you but not sure about tonsil hockey?' Oh, perfect! A maxi linen dress, shirt cut, and gladiator sandals. She gives herself a look over in the mirror. And then she pulls the pins out of her hair and lets it scatter on her shoulders.

Whom is she kidding, she is so sure about tonsil hockey! She has already had a taste, and Wrennie wants more! And then her traitor of a noggin stuffs under her nose a memory of another set of lips, under black whiskers, and the roughness of dark beard, and Wren freezes with a flat sandal half on her foot. Oh, no, conscience, go back to sleep! Oh bugger...

OK, Wren is making a decision. No kissing today. Decisively. And his brother tomorrow. God, when did her life turn into this circus? Yes, that is a smart decision. She is taking them both on a test drive, as in Talking Only! And yes, Miss Fanny, I'm looking at you! Only talking and spending time with both, and then tomorrow after the dinner with Dark and Mouth-Watering she'll know. And no second dates with either until she knows which one. Armed with her new badass tude and a whole bunch of silver jewelery, she leaves the room.

* * *

><p>"So, Bri who dragged you to the Faire since it's obviously not your cup of tea," he mimics posh accent and fixed a non-existent monocle on his eye, "How did you meet?" It takes Wren several seconds to concentrate. He is eating. Meaning, he is biting large pieces off his sausage waffle, and his beard covered jaw is moving. That is like Chippendale for Wren. She also knows how soft this beard is.<p>

They are sitting on a bench watching the bay and eating the 'World Famous Sausage Waffles' ™ from paper plates. She bumps her shoulder into his.

"Still playing the best mate card?" He gives out a short bark.

"Gosh, am I that transparent?" Wren curls up a corner of her lips. He is impossible. So, so… impossible. Concentrate, Wren, remember that is a test drive! "Maybe I'm looking out for my nephew? What if she is a cold-hearted succubus feeding on innocence and purity?" He makes a theatrical wave with his waffle and stuffs about a quarter of it in his mouth. She really didn't need the visual of his icing sugar covered lips.

"Then she'll die of starvation. Is there a single bloke in your family that hasn't found a random bint in their bed after one of those sword swinging sessions? I bet you are not even required to take off your shirts for that!" He makes a fake wounded expression accompanied with a whole-hearted gasp. The next thing, he'll ask for smelling salts.

"We are descendants of berserkers, Wren, the Norse warriors who are primarily reported in the Old Norse literature to have fought in a nearly uncontrollable, trance-like fury, and what do you think 'ber' stands for it in if not for 'bare?'" He looks very pleased with himself, and she asks the question that has been nagging at her mind after five minutes of talking to him when he enlightened her on the origins of her name.

"How educated are you exactly?" He is smiling to her, a wide closed mouth grin, a cheek sticking out from the waffle he stuffed under it.

"Plenty. Couple History degrees, minor in Linguistics. Someone has to make sure our shields and banners don't say 'donkey's pish' you know."

"Then why are you… you know, a carnie?" Wren has forgotten about her nosh. Degrees in History? She honestly thought he is an empty headed Casanova with a perfect body. He is laughing loudly now.

"Love, I should throw you over my knee and give you a good auld skelping on your cute bahooky. We are no carnies, we are action historians." She is staring in his green eyes. The fluffy lashes twitch, and he starts leaning in. Abort, abort, no lip contact! Wren has made her decision and will stick to it.

"Would you like to finish mine?" She sounds as if she is standing waist deep in cold water. He blinks and looks at the waffle she shoved under his nose. Judging by the look he is giving her from under hiked up eyebrows, he has sussed her out. "And answering your previous question, Bri saved me from a herd of horses that was trying to stomp me to death." He stops chewing her waffle. "We were five, and I fell off a horse on a merry-go-round. I was bricking it, screaming and pulling at me pony-tails in panic, and she jumped down and dragged me aside. I was a cackhanded child. Butter fingers, both left feet," he looks at her feet and pouts his lips. Gods and deities, help her. "So, my Nana sent me to a dance school. You know, the Irish way of teaching to swim?"

"To push out of a boat?"

"Yeah," she takes a sip from her ice tea and wrinkles her nose.

"You haven't assimilated one bit, have you? Still need your cuppa?" She nods, and he is studying her face. Damn her freckles. And it was easier when he was ogling her arse, it was simple and didn't make her heart flutter. Warm look he is giving her now is bloody disturbing. "Were you born here?"

"No, but when I was four my Mam and Nana moved here, and Mam married my stepfather. She passed away when I was in high school." He gives her a sympathetic nod, she gives him a grateful smile. "My stepfather is Irish too. Him and Nana both speak that way at home, and then I travel a lot, visit teaghlaigh, the family in Ireland, sometimes for a few months a year..." She is exaggerating her Gaelic accent. And then she leans to him and whispers conspiratorially, "And also I vainly think the accent makes me more interesting."

She expects a cheesy or romantic line in return, she doesn't expect a snog. The massive arms wrap around her upper body, and in the words of Bri, 'Jeebus Marie!' Here goes Wren's "no kissing either on the first date" decision. And her sanity. Her arms are locked between them, and he slightly lets her go, she pulls the hands out and should probably stop this, and shouldn't probably wrap her arms around his neck pulling him closer. While his brother is kissing as if the chick in his arms is the source of water, oxygen and life itself, and it feels like he is pulling one's soul out of them, this one is a dancer. He is switching angles, there are nips and licks, and she is slowly turning into a puddle of organic biomaterial on the bench.

She needs to stop this, she has made a decision, she was… Oh bugger, whatever!


	11. Taffy Was an Irishman

"I really fancy you, Wren," his eyes are sincere, and she feels panic rising. She is also sitting on his lap, which adds up to her mental squawking, they have already received a few disapproving glares from people passing by. OK, there was some inappropriate behaviour before, they were actively snogging, but before he spoke his lips were pressed to her temple, and she was playing with a long cinnamon coloured curl. Very demure, thank you very much.

It's not that she doesn't like him, she likes him a lot, but does she trust him? Not in the slightest. And he is silent now, looking into her eyes, and it feels like pressure, and Wrennie tends to react to pressure like a thoroughly shaken Pepsi can. Meaning… ka-boom!

"When did you last shag?" Yeah… That's the aforementioned 'ka-boom.' Verbal diarrhea ahoy. His body tenses under hers, and she clearly imagines how he pushes her off his lap, her jacksie down onto the pavement.

"On Friday, the day before you came to the Faire." She should give it to him, he is not being defensive about it. Or a braggart. He softly presses his lips to her cheekbone. "A one off thing, in her tent, a temp in a candied apples vendour." Wren tries to refrain from frantically recollecting who sold her the candied apple she had on Saturday. "You?"

"Six months ago. With my ex. He was mediocre." She turns the head and looks in his eyes. "See the difference? I am just not that sort of a bird, you know? I know this whole weekend was mental, and it looked like I am a bit of a… slag, and no judgement for those with more liberated lifestyle, horses for courses, but it's just not me..."

"Wren," he softly interrupts her and tucks a curl behind her ear, "Only a goon would assume you are that kind of a hen. You are fancy but not a fancy woman." She can't help it and snorts. And then she thinks it's sad it has to end. She really liked the bloke.

"So, should we wrap it up and go home, then?" She is smiling to him softly, her hand is on his chest, and she can feel his heart under the V-neck tee. He turned out so much more that a hunky piece of meat that she isn't even feeling up the chest hair under the soft cotton. Well, OK, maybe a little bit.

"Why?" He is giving her an exaggerated confused look. She sighs.

"Well, I'm really not going to shag you in your tent, and as fun as it is I really don't want to waste my and your time equally on dancing around the bush." He is frowning, and she imagines how he, if not drops her on her backside, but at least politely deposits her off his lap onto the bench.

"Oh, and in your mind I'm so shallow that once I know that the shag is off the table, I'll be finished with you?" That is exactly what she is thinking and isn't sure why he looks so appalled.

"I don't sleep with men I don't date. I also date very little..." Because men are annoying. But that's beside the point. Actually, one of the things Wren finds annoying is men behaving all condescending when they think women are being illogical. That is when they have this manky exasperated face he is wearing right now. She carefully starts sliding off his lap, but then he grabs her around her middle and puts her back where she was.

"Stop treating me like a ragdoll," she hisses.

"Stop assuming you know what I think and want," he gives her the copy of her narrowed eyes glare. That pisses her off. She presses her fists into her waist, though it's kind of a bodged up gesture since she is still on his lap.

"Oh, tell me how you saw the light and no more random scoring for you." He seems equally pissed off now.

"I don't know, love, it's only our first date, and it's not going that guid at the nou, but there is always a chance. Unlike you I don't put people in small boxes and label them richt away. It might work out, it might go verra bad, yeah? How do I know? But I'm not giving up on it just because you are not my usual gig."

"Well, unlike you I don't have the usual gig," she hisses, and he gives her a sarcastic look.

"Oh yeah? Tell me you don't always go for blokes who are hench because no way you want a flabby painch," he smacks his wide hand into his rock hard abdominal muscles, "But you want to be able to chin wag too, since your gob ne'er closes, lovie!"

"It does!"

"One has to literally snog you to shut you up!" They are yelling at each other. It is additionally mental since she is still on his lap and they both tend to chop air with their hands when they argue. Now they both impersonate Dutch windmills and duck away from each other arms.

And then Wren freezes with her mouth half open. Because he is absolutely bloody right. Her longest term boyfriend was a computer scientist from Texas and had a body of a Greek god. She still keeps his barechested photo above her table just to remind herself on the days when her self-esteem hits the bottom that she actually bonked that. And they both were into Star Trek TOS. And both were vegan while together. She turns and looks at the Scot underneath her. He is still blathering. Something about her 'paitering' and how infuriating she is, and she cups his face and presses her lips to his. There is a sharp inhale, and the arms once again go around her. She is kissing him, the lips are warm, and she starts scratching the beard. It is amazingly soft, and he is squinting his eyes. She slightly moves away and smiles to him.

"I do fancy hench blokes that can put some words together." He returns the grin.

"Not at the moment I can't." They laugh together, and she slides off his lap. She stretches her hand and wiggles her fingers.

"Common, let's go. I'll show you the town, and you will charm me with your oral skills." He puckers his lips, eyebrows go up in a whimsical angle, and she snorts. "I meant you'll have to talk… Get your mind out of your gutter."

"Can't help it, hen, it resides there."

* * *

><p>"I'm not going on the merry-go-round! It's for sprogs!"<p>

"Common, hen, you are the proper size!" He is carrying her bum up, over his shoulder, and she is squealing and dangling her legs, making sure she doesn't actually kick him.

"Frerin, no! I'm still scared of them!"

"It's been years, hen, and one has to overcome one's fears." She is battering his back with her fists, he is roaring with laughter. The carnival on the Promenade is a small bunch of rides, candy floss and a few sideshows. He has just won her a nauseatingly pink teddy bear, and she is currently smacking his arse with it.

"They all are toddlers on it!" Yes, they are, and their parents are giving them looks.

"Like I said, richt for yer wee bahooky!" He forgets who he is dealing with. She stretches her arms down his torso, grabs him around his waist and jerks out of his hands. He wasn't holding her too tightly, and her legs make a flip, she is bent all the way backwards, and here she is, standing on the ground behind him. He twirls around and starts laughing louder. Right until he receives a faceful of pink fur of Theodore Wallace.

"Stop manhandling me, animal!"

"You want to see an ainimal?! I'll kythe ye an ainimal! " Mamma mia, Wrennie's fanny is cheering! The tone is suggestive, oh jaysus, it's all growl and purr. She squeals and sprints away from him. She already knows how agile he is, and her only hope to escape is to squeeze through some small space he can't fit. The question is whether she wants to escape, yeah?

They are running around the carnival, he is maneuvering between weans and their mommas, excusing himself and showering them with smiles, none seems to mind, just look at those white teeth and laughing eyes! And she eventually climbs on the rails of the esplanade, and he is right there near her ankles.

"Come closer, and Theodore is a dead bear!" She theatrically shakes the toy above the waves sloshing underneath.

"Then he'll die with an honourable battle cry of _Bas no Beatha!_" He is prowling towards her, and she makes a few steps away. The rail is narrow, and she is watching her feet. She has almost zero chance to trip, but she is not daft. "Love, are you safe there?" His voice is suddenly completely normal, and she smiles.

"Yeah, and I will get down if you promise no 'ainimal.'" He is chuckling and stretches hands to her.

"Common, get down. We still haven't had any candy floss." She slides into his hands, shut up, Miss Fanny, and he is holding her inches above the ground, so that her nose is near his. Snog alert, snog alert, she has already cocked up her own resolutions. Oh god, the lips! Puckered, warm, aahhh!..

But again, she has a dinner with the other one tomorrow. Bugger. That sobers her up. Wren clenches her teeth and decides that it is Theodore's lucky day. The bear gets stuffed between them, and the leany Scot smooches the pink fur. The green eyes fly open, and yes, he was fluttering his super girly, thick, orgasmic lashes, and he spits out a bit of fluff.

"I'm not much for bestiality, love," he looks at her from around Theodore, and she giggles. He puts her on the ground, and she only mildly hates the possessive arm around her shoulders.

* * *

><p>He is walking her home, she is carrying Theodore, his hands are full of balloons and bags of funnel cakes and homemade saltwater taffy for Bri. Wren is not coming home empty handed. There is a miniscule chance Bri will be too preoccupied with the nosh to start interrogating Wren before she takes off her shoes. But again, miniscule… Thus taffy. It can seal even Briallen Davis for a few moments.<p>

They are walking up the stairs to Wren's flat, and she can feel his eyes on her back. Seriously, feels like her nape is being brushed by something warm. She shivers and throws him a look over her shoulder. He is walking couple steps behind, and his eyes are on the same level as hers. Oh the eyes... The bright green, golden specks around the pupils, little wrinkles in the corners… And then it hits her. Her breathing hitches, and she drops Theodore.

There are freckles. They are faint, not like her orange pests, but they are there. He is tanned, they spend all their time outside, but… He. Has. Freckles! She grabs him around his neck and pulls him into a snog. He makes a surprised 'oomph' sound, and then Bri's treats hit the floor.

They both have handfuls of hair and clothes, that is officially groping, and she twirls him and pushes his back into the wall. Sod it! He has freckles! And they are adorable!

And then she jumps away from him and loudly clears her throat.

"So yeah..." She croaks and tries to fix her hair, and wait, why are the two top buttons of her dress are open? Oh, they aren't. They are gone. She looks under her feet, but they probably flew somewhere towards Alaska. She lifts her eyes at him, he looks completely bladdered. "Well, thank you for the lovely evening..." She picks up Theodore and the bags.

"Uh-huh..." The speech hasn't yet returned to him. Interesting… And she honestly thought there was no way to shut his gob. She looks up, the balloons are by the ceiling, and she hops trying to reach the strings.

"A bit of help, please?" He peels himself off the wall and hands the balloons to her. "OK, I'll text." She pats her shoulder, he is still gawking at her.

"Uh-huh..." He looks additionally barmy with his cinnamon curls sticking out around his clock, and she quickly disappears behind her door.

* * *

><p>Wren enters the living room and then jumps couple feet in the air with a terrified squeak. Bri is sitting on the sofa, and the table lamp is turned so that Bri is outside the circle of light.<p>

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Bond." Bri is very good at impersonations, she is even patting her blue teddy, Perry Twinkle, cradled on her arm. Wren shields herself with the bags.

"Taffy?" Wren uses her most enticing purry voice. There is a moment of internal struggle reflected on Bri's face. Sweets versus details, tough choice for Briallen Davis… Wren makes a small step ahead gently shaking the bag of taffy in front of her, as if luring a wild beast. Good Bri, nice Bri, have some sugar and cornstarch… And then the russet eyes focus on Wren's face instead of the alluringly rustling bag.

"Not goin' to work on me, sugarplum!" Damn it. "Spill."

Wren sighs and plops on the sofa near her friend. Bri fixes the lamp, and they tuck into the bag of candies. Wren is chewing and emits another sigh.

"I really don't know what I'm doing here, Bri." Wren's friend hums sympathetically, unwrapping another sweet. Wren fishes one for herself from the bag, it's chocolate cherry. Wren hands it to Bri, getting her favourite butterscotch in return. They are quiet for a bit, and Wren puts her head on Bri's shoulder. "He is almost perfect..."

"Almost?" Bri habitually starts scratching the back of Wren's head.

"Yeah..."

"As in?"

"As in he has a brother who just might be perfect… er..." Wren knows it's not a word, but it is as adequate of the description of her aggro as they make them.

"Yeah, after Sunday's fun and games at rehearsal, a finer pair of bothers I haven't run across. But rip roaring bothers they are." Wren groans and drops her head back. A happy looking elephant balloon is floating above her head, and she sticks her tongue at it.

"Which one would you choose?"

"Oh no, sister mine, ain't a'going there. I learned ol' Light and Lively isn't quite the clueless git he paints himself. And DD is some seriously deep waters. A good friend wouldn't try to pick for you, but let your heart decide, and support you when you do." Wren bumps her shoulder to Bri's.

"That you are indeed. And Frerin is not a clueless git indeed, he has couple degrees in History and was a perfect gentleman all evening." Well, there was the bench snog, but that can totally be emitted. Uhem...

"Yeah, learnt that when the stinker finished my quote for me." Wren fidgets with her third button, and that is when Bri notices the state Wren's dress is in. "Uuuuum..."

"Don't ask!" Wren flails her hands in the air. "A. I'll tell you everything in a mo. B. I'm stuck on the previous thought."

"Drownin' in divine n' dangerous Dark and Darlin's deep waters?" Bri's shoulders are shaking, her voice impish. Bugger. She knows Wren all too well.

"Yeah… And congrats on the alliteration triumph, by the way." Bri gives Wren her best wink. "I mean, he said, what? About a dozen words to me..."

"Somehow, I don't think it's the dozen words, but the magical tongue tanglin' you two been up to." Wren asks herself whether her eye is twitching. It is most likely twitching. Not thinking of the kiss at the arena substitutes about 65% of her mental activity these days. It's exhausting.

"The thing is, Bri, you spent a day with him. The bloke doesn't need words. And even without them, I kind of… get him, you know?" It comes out squeaky and childish, but Bri understands. She nods, and they go back to their taffies. Yeah, Wrennie is in a pickle.


	12. Baa Baa Black Smith

"Wren, why ain't you dressed yet?" Bri is standing over Wren, who is spread on the floor in their small living room, in a shape of a starfish, eyes closed. She opens one and is looking at her friend. Bri's eyes are scanning Wren's denim and a simple stripy top. Wren closes the eyes back and points at the coffee table with her mobile on it. Bri swipes and opens, and would you look at that, a text from Mr. Grumptious. _Pick you up at 7? Dress casually and comfortably. T. _"Not much of a talker, is he?" Wren shakes her head without changing her position.

"Do you think he is taking me sword practising?" Wren realises what she said a second later, right before Bri's evil sniggering starts. Wren groans. She sits up and gives her friend a sad look. "I am not even excited, I feel so guilty… If it goes well tonight, I'm a bitch towards Frerin, if it goes bad… I'm still a bitch for even going. And if it goes well, and then Thorin finds out how well it went yesterday…" Bri makes a disdainful 'pffft' sound.

"I'm pretty darned sure Thorin knew how well it went the moment Frerin got home. You really think that rooster wouldn't crow?" Wren falls backwards with a loud thud from her head meeting the floor. "And I'll tell you another thing, missy. You ain't no bitch and I'll not have you callin' yourself one. Why's it your fault you can't choose? Why'd they both have to lock eyes on you, huh? Why they gotta be such… such… effin' tomcats."

Wren really hopes Frerin didn't talk, after all 'no kissing and telling', and he is hopefully a gentleman enough to keep his gob shut, but something tells her he found a way to show his brother how successful his wooing was. She is now frantically trying to remember whether she has left a lovebite anywhere. To do so she needs to recall what they were doing on that bloody bench. And then on the stairs. Abort, abort! She is pretty sure there was no lovebite, but if he just sauntered in their hall with that grin of his, everything was probably as clear as day.

"Blimey, it's like highschool all over again." Wren groans, "Remember that blonde, what was it, JJ? And then his next door neighbour, Bubba something? How was I supposed to know they lived next door?" Wren rubs her face with her hands, and Bri sniggers again.

"Remember their mommas came a'askin' your granny to pay for broken windows in both houses and she told them to 'sling their hook.' Hey, have you talked to her yet? About all this nonsense? What does she think of the Disturbing Duo?"

"No, she'd eat my head off, you know her. Tough as nails." Wren sits up and gives Bri a sudden cold stare. Wren knows it looks very much like Grandma Leary. To confirm Bri winces away. Bri loves Nana to bits, but is scared of her shitless. Everyone is. "What sort of blarney is this, child?" Wren is aiming for thick accent and judgy tone, impersonating the firebreathing dragon that is her Nana. "Will people start throwing odds to you on the street soon? It's only one step from a reddener to a tart." Bri is staring at Wren. "Meaning today I'm kissing two men, tomorrow I'm a street walker."

"Really reckon she'd react that badly?"

"Oh, common, you know Nana. Ethics are strong in this one. And after finishing her lecture on loose morals, she'll ask whose bum is better."

"I guess pickin' yer fella by best bum is one way to go…"

"That's how we Leary chicks do it." Wren gets up and starts pushing her mobile and keys into her handbag. "Well, at least this time we are not going to some fancy overpriced spot."

* * *

><p>And she is wrong again. He picks her up, with a small polite bow to Bri who has schooled her face into a very serious expression, except her curls are bouncing in suppressed laughter, and they drive his rented Toyota to the second fanciest French bistro in the town. When he parks, Wren opens her mouth to tell him off, she is really not dressed for that, and he is in denim and white short sleeved shirt by the way, and no, she hasn't been staring at him from the corner of her eye through the whole trip and that's why she missed where they were going. But then she susses out they are parked at the back. And the lights in the bistro are off. OK… That is slightly alarming. Are they going to have a date in a car? She had those, in high school again, and they mostly consisted of snogging. She feels suddenly hot. There is something very wrong with her since she is chuffed at the prospect of such a bog standard date. Oh blimey, not imagining straddling him on that driver's seat. Belt it, external reproductive organs!<p>

He gets out of the car, and she is so spun out that her feminist part forgets to freak out when he opens the door for her. And helps her out. And doesn't let go of her hand. He leads her to the back door, and opens it with keys he has fished out of the pocket of his jeans.

And by the way he still hasn't said anything! After a low and rumbly 'Good evening,' and while driving an odd question on whether she is allergic to mushrooms or onions. She squeaked 'no,' and the conversation, though it hardly qualifies as one, died out.

* * *

><p>He leads her through the back rooms of the restaurant, and she suddenly remembers all those horror films involving large freezer rooms. Chill, Wrennie, you are just jittery because he is still holding the hand firmly, he has scorching palms, and you are feeling guilty for copping off with his brother. Twice. Oh god.<p>

The kitchen is empty though the lights are on. There are ingredients arranged on the counter, and he leads her to it.

"Are we cooking our own dinner?" She is not very good at it. She bakes, but cooking has always been Bri's specialty.

"I am," he looks down at her, and then picks her up under her arms, she is reminded of the fence incident, and puts her on one of the tall stools nearby.

OK, A. He really needs to stop manhandling her. She is not a toddler, she is an independent modern woman. And no, bloody hell, she didn't swoon. B. Swoon! He cooks!

And then he places the final blow, which makes her grab her seat to prevent her suddenly weakened body from sliding on the floor, probably with feeble mewling as the soundtrack. An apron! Forget the suits, the kilts, the uniform! Aprons, my darlings, are the ultimate fanny killers.

He sticks his head in a fridge, and Wren can't help but tilt her head appraising the back pockets on his denim. What? Well, Nana will ask tomorrow, and Wren will need a detailed report. Damn the genetics in this family, one really can't choose!

"Beet with pine nuts or kale with goat cheese?" OK, seriously, that's the fourth line he is giving her. Does he think his voice is too effective to use it mindlessly? Because it really is.

She goes for beets, and he hands her a little salad bowl and a fork. And proceeds to cook. And Wren forgets to even try her salad though it looks gorgeous. But this… This looks a hundred times more gorgeous. Apparently they are having burgers, and the way his large hands fly in the air making patties, and then while the grill is heating up, the way he is slicing tomatoes, and mushrooms, and onions…

"You are not eating." That's murmuring. That's plain, unbashful murmuring. So he is looking then. But how? He looks completely concentrated on his task. Wren stuffs a forkful of the salad in her mouth and can't suppress a moan. God, that is divine! What is in this manna from heaven mixed with fairy dust and angel tears? "It's a Russian recipe. You were at Novgorod Renaissance faire last year."

And?.. Wren is gobbling up her salad and is giving his back a glare. There is surely some interesting story there, after all Russkies are a barmy batch, but apparently Dark and Egg Laying reckons what he said suffices.

"I can actually feel you glunshing between me shoulder blades," he is chuckling nonchalantly slicing another tomato. She licks the dressing off the fork, wasting this food would be a blasphemy.

"What's glunshing?" He slightly turns and gives her a look over his shoulder. Rassilon save her, the colour of the eyes is exceptional, indeed just like the husky dogs.

"That death glare you throw me when you think I can't see you," one corner of his lips curls up, and she squirms on her chair. Why is she feeling like she is one of those patties to be grilled? Yeah, lots of heat, then he'll flip her, and there will be more heat on the other side. To evenly warm up the insides. Oh god.

The problem is that while his brother is all full frontal assault, cards on the table, 'grab and woo,' this one is quiet, and that's bleeding dangerous. He is just sauteing her like those mushrooms, waiting for when her reserve cracks and she basically jumps his bones herself. And also he clear as day knows how much his calm demeanour is brassing her off, and how much it is challenging her to get under his skin. And it's bloody working.

"Why didn't you ask me out in the tent to start with?" He disappears in the fridge again, clearly stalling, she is smiling smugly. He appears with a plate of mozzarella salad and pushes it in her hands. She obediently tucks in.

"Because you are too young." She freezes with a basil leaf between her teeth. Oh, so those silver threads, and by the way... swoon, word of the evening, are for real. Hm…

"Then why am I here?" She gestures around herself with a fork.

"You made me change my mind." Wren is chewing a tomato slice, he is looking at her lips. Hm… Was it the snog after the fight? Or something else? He turns around and goes back to his burgers.

Wren is a chatty bird. She tends to go on rants, thus the habit of inner monologues, because if she just says everything she thinks, no one else would fit a word in. And she cohabitates with Bri. They had to learn to take turns. And she always thought she wouldn't be able to be with a bloke whose sentences are limited to five words. And yet she is endlessly comfortable. Who would know?

"I'm done," she stretches the hand with the plate to him, and he throws her a look. He might not say much, but them peepers!.. Crikey! There is laughter bubbling in them, he is clearly taking a piss at her appetite, and one of the black brows is crawling up. OK, if she ever gets her hands on him, she makes an oath to run a tip of her finger along it. So black, thick and glossy!.. Yum.

And then she reminds herself, that there is a big 'if' in this sentence. Because no way she can do anything even slightly naughty today if she is not a hundred percent sure she chooses him over his brother. And really, considering how ace everything went last night, not much can convince her to switch from Milk Chocolate to the Dark and Bitter.

He flips the burgers, steps to her and kisses her. The large scorching palms cup her jaw, there is nanosecond when she sees the long black lashes and her nose fills with Davidoff Adventure, and then he… well, let's say, harlequin novels came up with the best description for such snog. He floods her senses. It's like nothing is left in the world but the soft lips, the heat coming off his body in waves, the fresh and spicy smell of his skin, she pushes her fingers into his hair at the back of the head, and after a few seconds she jerks an end of the string holding his mane in a ponytail. He is pressing forward, she is arching into him, and then he wedges himself between her legs. And then he deepens the kiss, although she thought by now she'd need a bathyscaphe to get back on the surface. He has a peculiar manner of kissing, she noticed it on the arena or whatever it's called. He pays more attention to the upper lip, not that the bottom one feels anyhow left out, and there is one magical trick he does that she will see in her naughty dreams from now on. He strokes her jaw near her ears with his thumbs while his fingers are pushed into her hair. And somehow it does things to her.

One of his hands lies on the counter behind her, and he is leaning her backwards even more. Good thing she has a flexible spine. And when exactly one of her legs wrapped around his thighs? Hm…

And wait, wait, wait! Avast! What the bloody hell is wrong with her?! She unwraps the traitor of the limb and presses both palms into his chest. He immediately lets her go, but his sides are heaving in deep breaths, the pupils are dilated and the lips are swollen. And he is clenching his jaws, nostrils flaring, and blimey, what a beast!

"You didn't ask..." She chokes out. "You are manhandling me... " It sounds childish, but seriously?!

"I couldn't help it." His voice is completely calm. What the hell?!

"You didn't look that way..." She is whining. She probably looks very daft, but she needs to understand! He is as easy to read as an average doctor's handwriting.

"I don't date, I especially don't compete with my brother, and I apologise for not asking, but shagging you is all I've been thinking since you entered our tent." He exhales sharply, his face is completely composed now, except for the frantic red spots on his glorious cheekbones and burning eyes, and he goes back to his cooking. Yeah, that about answers all her questions. The longest strings of words she has heard from him by the way. She grabs the glass of water he put in front of her and drinks it in a few greedy gulps. Oh god, what an aggro! Between Frerin I-Want-To-Change-My-Ways Durinson and Thorin Everything-I-Do-Is-Intense equally Durinson, Wrennie is in a proper barney.

* * *

><p>The burgers are ace, but by then she doesn't doubt his prowess in front of the oven. Let's face it, she doesn't doubt his prowess anywhere. Well, maybe if he were in an MC battle he might have some barney. Though he might just growl at the opponent, the latter would scamper, and ladies in the audience would faint.<p>

"You look like you are making lists in your head," he pops a French fry in his mouth, they are sitting on two sides of a bar counter in the center of the kitchen. He made fries, there are pickle spears, and Wren smiles, because even after many years here her Mam stubbornly called them dill cucumber slices.

And then she thinks that Mam would have liked Thorin. Wren's Da did a bunk on them when Wren was two, and there were women, Mam wouldn't have liked Frerin. 'Too much of a looker' was Mam's evaluation of anyone slightly less of a minger than Quasimodo. Da was a looker of course. Mam would have liked Thorin though, Wren is sure, despite all his mind-blowing attractiveness. Wren is giving him an evaluating look, he is calmly chewing his burger. The jaw is moving under the black beard, the giant burger, and she doubts she'll manage a half of hers, looks small in his hands, and she really fancies the wrists.

"I have long and convoluted inner monologues. And I do make lists. And discuss things with myself. Sometimes there are argy bargies." He gives her a small smile, just with the very corners of his lips, but it's enough for her to feel all mushy and warm inside. "Are you as chatty in your head as you are in real life?"

"Aye," he dips a fry in cumin mayo he made in front of her eyes and starts chewing it calmly. Yep, the bloke just never shuts his gob, does he?


	13. Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Thorin

The two of them are dancing in the empty kitchen. He found a boombox in one of the cupboards while looking for tea mugs, the only disc they have was inside it, and it is _Best Christmas Hits of Motown. _He is swirling her around the kitchen, and _Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) _by Darlene Love is playing. He is leading but not controlling, and he is the best partner she has ever had in her life. Or maybe it just seems this way. Because it is organic, and fun, and her skin is tingling, and she gasps when he dunks her.

But seriously, his open break right turn is to die for! The cross body lead, the frisbee turn, and god, the pressure of his fingers around her hand is just right. But on the other hand, there is no rhyme or reason to their dancing, it's not rehearsed or forced, none of them cares how they look, they are just moving around the kitchen, enjoying being together and touching each other, all she can feel is his presence, and his warmth, and the smell of his skin, and when dancing turns into a kiss it is so natural that she realises what is going on when he has already spread her on the counter and both his hands are on her stomach under her top, and surely there was someone else in this room because he is busy, and she surely doesn't remember unbuttoning his shirt! Oh, all gods and deities, Wrennie is doomed! She is grabbing handfuls of the orgasmic silky mass that is his hair, and gives him better dental check up than his hygienist. He pulls one hand out and starts shaking his shirt off his left shoulder, and hello, oaken shield! It is giant, the tree is negative space, the inside of the circle around it is crisp black, and there are some barmy runes going around the edge. She twists from under his lips, he is kissing her collarbones, and she just needs to touch it! She splays her palm on the tattoo, their eyes meet, and he smirks to her lopsidedly. She takes a sharp breath in.

"Oaken shield..." She doesn't know why she is whispering, there are just two of them here, and he catches her mouth. And then his lips slide along her jaw, to her ear, and he breathes out her name it. Bloody hell, what is this madness?! He is pulling his second arm from out of the sleeve, and wait, she did wear a top! How the hell is he then giving her bra an appraising look if it is supposed to be covered with her top? That is currently on the floor. Oh god, oh god, oh god! And how?! His hands are on her skin again, seemingly everywhere, and he catches the strap of her best black lace bra between his teeth, and no, she was not planning for him to see it, and then he pulls the strap down, hot open-mouthed kisses follow, she has sensitive shoulders, and then he gives her ribs a long lick. She is pulling at his hair, arching on the counter and moaning loudly. Only when he unbuttons her jeans, some sort of thought wakes up in her foggy noggin.

"No..." She rasps out, and his hands freeze. It lets her take a deep breath in, and she starts moving away from him on the counter. Again, all she can think is 'how in the name of Rassilon?!' His fly is open, and the lack of pants throws her off. She thought he would be brief boxers kind of guy. Given under kilt they probably wear nada, but the expand of what she sees there makes her whimper and scamper.

"Wren..." He sounds like he is in acute pain. She is sorry, but not that sorry. She rolls off the counter, he is still kneeling on it, and this way his head is somewhere there at the ceiling, but at least he is not touching her.

"What the hell?! Seriously, what the hell?! How did this happen?" She is gesturing all over her chest, and his eyes are predictably on the bra. Her unassuming tits, and seriously it's more of a hint at a cleavage rather than anything corporeal, but whatever she has there is all puckered up and happy and demanding as much contact with him as possible. Blood is roaring in her ears, and she is staring at him. He heavily sits, throws his legs off the edge of the counter and is clearly preparing to slide off it, when she yells, "Stay!"

He stops in his tracks and looks at her. He probably has never been ordered like that in his life, but she needs some distance from him. She makes a few steps backwards, and her back is pressed to a metal door of a pantry. She is normally all for warmth, she is so skinny that she is always cold, but right now she welcomes the frosty door pressed to her shoulder blades. She feels like he dunked her into boiling oil like the chips for their dinner.

"I just had a date with your brother yesterday," she can see muscles immediately play on his jaw, she hates doing it to him, but she needs to take whatever is happening under control, "And it's our first date, I never even kiss on first dates. This, this is too much… You are too much… Blimey, you are intense..." Has Wren mentioned verbal diarrhea? Yeah, here it is. She rubs her face with her palms, "Jaysus, how do you live like that?"

"I am never like that. It's just with you." He is still sitting on the counter like she commanded him to, he is slowly going down from the adrenaline, and seriously, can he be more perfect?! And the answer is just perfect! And his hair is perfect, slightly disheveled and making him madly sexy. And his chest is perfect. And his… oh god. She turns away from him, but it's bloody useless, if she closes her eyes all she can see is him sitting on that counter and giving her a burning stare.

"Wren, you have to decide." Oh bugger. She knows she does! Why does he also have to be so smart about it? And see all through her? She turns to him and gives him a pitiful look. He is calm now, but she can still see him taking shallow sharp breaths in. There is another tattoo on the left side of the chest, she assumes it is the clan crest, Frerin has it on his left shoulder blade, for both of them it is over the heart, and she suddenly feels horrible. They are both wonderful, and she is putting them both through a wringer.

"I can't..." She is whining. It is the god honest truth, and it hurts like hell. It stopped being funny about five minutes ago when she realised how much her body answers to his. But shag isn't everything! And they don't talk! And Frerin gets her! And they had fun! And she almost just bonked this one on the first date! On a kitchen table! Even her inner voice is shrieky at this stage.

He gives it a thought and nods. "Give me my shirt, please." She sees it on the floor, picks it up and throws it to him. Coming closer is still not safe. She is certain, one touch, and it's over. He is getting dressed, she is wriggling her hands.

"I'll call you a cab," he is back to the 'still waters run deep' persona, and she suddenly feels cold. Maybe because a second ago she was on fire. She feels so arsed up that she doesn't even cringe from how bad this pun was. He picks up her top from a counter where it apparently has been propelled to before. Oops. She carefully pulls it out of his fingers, trying not to brush on his skin. Something tells her it'll end in ka-boom, and then it'll be too late to choose. Blimey, she is shaking...

There is some mental chemical reaction happening in her body. Yeah, they are not touching anymore, and there is a table and stools between them, but she can still feel him. And taste. Oh god, it's like she's been poisoned. What is the usual venom treatment? OK, sucking out the wound… Abort, abort, no thinking about any mouth related activities.

He pulls out his mobile from the trousers and starts dialing. God, these hands… OK, Wren, pull yourself together. 180 degrees turn, not looking at him, measured breaths.

It's something chemical, for sure. Probably some matching DNAs or something, it feels like she is a Magnet Space Wheel. Whoosh, one way, and then she gets jerked back to him so abruptly that she feels like she might dislocate couple cervical discs, her head whips so hard. She's never felt like that, like they match, or fit, or linked, or some other rubbish like that.

She peeks, he is giving the cab the address, he got dressed, but she still needs to grab the side of the table to refrain from a bit of grabby-grabby. God, she now knows what he feels like on her, and it's… There are no words. The weight, the heat, oh god… She rushes to the sink and splashes some water onto her face.

Frerin was right yesterday though. Right? He was right? Frerin who? Blast it. No, no, he was right. She always fancies blokes whom she can talk to, she is always looking for the one who is craic, lippy, she can't be with a Chewbacca, she doesn't speak Wookiee. She needs to be able to understand what's happening in his head!

"The cab is here." See? See? That's what Wren is talking about! Four words! She almost just banged him on the table, refused him when both their trousers were unbuttoned, oh, Wrennie Leary is a shameless slag! Her cheeks are burning painfully. And yeah, maybe they exchanged one line each, but he basically told her she needs to choose between him and his brother, and she said she couldn't. Jaysus, what is wrong with her?! Who says that to a bloke?! And after all that he gives her four words!

She obediently plods after him through the back rooms of the restaurant, he opens the cab door, she is keeping her eyes on her flats, and suddenly he leans in and brushes his lips to her temple. Feels like she grabbed a bare wire with her hand.

"See you next week, Wren." What? Her eyes fly to his face, she is already sitting on the seat, and suddenly he bends, picks up her legs under her knees and puts them inside the cab. "Night." The door closes, the cab moves, and she is watching his wide back disappearing in the restaurant.

* * *

><p>This time Wren is so exhausted that she has nothing to defuse the bomb that is waiting for her at home. She opens the front door and falls into the hall.<p>

Bri is sitting on a sofa with a face of a cocker spaniel waiting for his owner to come back from a pet shop with treats. There is a toothbrush sticking out of her ear, it throws Wren off for a mo, but then a long drawn out 'mo-o-o-orning' gives her the clue.

"Really, Bri? George Weasley?"

"A ginger for a ginger!" Judging by the hundred watt grin the line has been prepared too. "Fess up Chickeewink! Every time you see that Weasley pair, a bit of drool forms at the corner a' yer mouth. Especially once they got older n' their hair got longer… Whichen was that? _Goblet of Fire_ or _Order of the Phoenix_?" Wren toes off her shoes, walks up to Bri and falls down on the sofa with a loud groan.

"I don't fancy them anymore. There are two of them. These days it gives me creeps."

Bri pulls the toothbrush out of her ear, and her tone is sincerely sympathetic, "What happened, sugarlump? Total flop?" All Wren can give her best friend is another groan. "Didn't turn out so hot?"

That produces an interesting reaction in Wren's body. Uncontrollable hysterical laughter. She is roaring, her arms around her middle, odd ringing in her ears. Yeah, that's probably the end of it. Bye, bye, Wren's sanity. The synapses fried, and Wren is on her way to the loonitown. And she can't stop… Her body is sliding off the sofa, Bri looks mildly worried, still holding the toothbrush in her hand, and somehow it makes Wren laugh even harder.

"I can't… Can't breathe… Oh… Kill... me… now..."

"Ummmmm, Wrennie, you okay?"

"No, I am not okay, I almost shagged him on the kitchen table," she delivers it like it's her signature joke in a gig, she almost expects to hear Bri's iconic 'padum tish!' Instead Bri makes a surprised yelp like noise. "I think he is contagious..."

"Lord almighty, you think he has…" Bri's face is momentarily terrified, and Wren waves her arms in the air reassuringly.

"No, I mean _he _is like a virus… I can't get him out of my system! Like I can still taste him!" She switches from laughing to headbanging. Good floorboards, cool floorboards, she is staying here forever! There are no hunky males here, that's her new favourite spot now. Bri deftly pushes a sofa cushion under Wren's forehead, and Wren whimpers from disappointment.

"So, whichen you tryin' to beat your brains out over? Dark 'n' Dangerous, or Light 'n' Lively?"

"I don't know!" Wren's yell is muffled by the cushion her face is pressed into. Bri pats her back and leaves for the kitchen. Wren can hear the comforting hum of the electric kettle, that's for her cuppa, and then a bang of the freezer. That would be ice cream for Bri. Bri is clanking with dishes in the kitchen, Wren is trying not to think about Thorin. Oh blast.

Bri comes with Wren's mug, Earl Grey, cream and honey, and a giant bowl of dark chocolate mocha ice cream with raspberry jam in the center. The mug is near Wren's nose on the floor, Bri climbs on the sofa and makes an inviting gesture with her hand. Wren sighs and sits up. The cuppa is warming up her hands.

"He is just so sexy… You know? There is so much life in him, so warm, so… It feels like being home, you know?"

"Frerin?" Bri asks for confirmation, but seems to be certain.

"No, I was talking about Thorin."

"Oh?" Bri's eyebrows jump up, and she stuffs a spoonful in her mouth. Another wave of her hand follows, and Wren sighs and tries again.

"But on the other hand, he really wants to go stable, and you know me, I do want stable, but he seems really intent on it…"

"Thorin?" Bri seems less confident now.

"Frerin," Wren realises something isn't working in this conversation. Bri is staring at her with a spoon sticking out of her mouth. OK, Wren can do it! How hard is it to talk about blokes, yeah?

"Well, he is fun, I mean, I just feel so giddy and jolly with him, like I'm a bottle with a fizzy drink inside me..." Bri lifts her hand and pulls the spoon out of her mouth.

"OK, this time I know the answer! Frerin, right?"

"Thorin," Wren is starting to feel a bit sick.

"Dang it, I'm no good at this _What's my Durinson? _quiz show," Bri is shaking her head and scoops some more of the sweet goo. Wren takes a large sip and mournfully nods.

"Me neither." They are quiet for a bit, but then Bri, the voice of reason, points at Wren with a spoon.

"Well, comparing the upsides hasn't done you any good. Maybe you need to check the downs." Wren starts snorting in her mug.

"When I said about the kitchen table, I did say 'almost,' Bri." Wren is watching her friend above the rim of the mug. Judging by the wide eyed look, the pun was unintentional. "Although he did unbutton his denim by then..." Bri is slightly blushing, but curiosity overcomes the propriety.

"So, how Scottish is your Scot?"

"Let's say, I should have brought a blue ribbon." Now both of them are snorting, and after couple minutes, feeling slightly better, Wren puts an elbow on the coffee table and rests her cheek on it. "The downside in both cases is that it's not a sure answer, you know? If I preferred one over another, I'd know, right? I wouldn't have doubts… And when I was with Frerin I couldn't stop thinking of Thorin. And when I was with Thorin… I just kept on comparing, and thinking… He isn't the easiest of blokes, you know?"

"I've spent two days rehearsin' and singin' with 'em. Yeeeeeah, I know."

"Yeah..." Wren is watching the sloshing leftovers of her tea in the mug she is twirling in her hands. "By the way Thorin said 'till next week.' What's happening next week?"

"Oh, Fili's birthday's happenin'. This is your official invite, 'cause I want you there, and it'll be fun. Karaoke kind of fun!" Yeah, great. Tone deaf Wren, who can't drink, in a nightclub, with two men she can't choose between. Good thing all her troubles are over. She drops on her back and smacks the cushion into her face. Bugger.


	14. Old Mother Leary

Grandma Leary lives in a 1880s white cottage, twin gable-fronted dormers and wraparound porch giving the house its Victorian cottage appearance. Flowers and herbs grow around it in the garden that is both the envy and the pride of the whole district. Grandma Leary has a green thumb. And she also gives heebie-jeebies to everyone. Literally. Grandpa Leary was supposedly the only one person in the history of ever who wasn't bricking it when she would look at him. He was also a hench Irish bloke, six five or more, with a mane of ebony hair and blue eyes, and according to family legends he 'fought like a devil and sang like an angel.' Judging by a shine that still appears in Grandma's eyes when she habitually throws a loving butcher's at his portrait on the wall, Grandpa Leary was a dreamboat.

Wren climbs off her bike, and taking a deep calming breath in she goes up the stairs and knocks at the freshly painted door.

"Maimeó, it's me," she calls entering, and her Grandma appears from the kitchen. If Wren is ever so jammy, she will look like that at 66. But Grandma says that only with a good 'fear céile,' which is unfortunately 'a husband.' Basically, tough tits, Wrennie my girl, but never in your life. Grandma gives her an attentive look over, presses her lips and then points at the sofa with her eyes. Wren gulps.

"Take the weight off your legs, child. I can see the conversation will be long." Wren slowly lowers her bum on the sofa and meets the eyes of Grandma's two moggins, Boru and Maeve. She gives them a friendly smile, and receives a derisive glare from Maeve. Well, at least the male one comes up to her and starts rubbing his large round head to her calves.

Grandma returns with a tea tray, and Wren jumps up on her feet to help. "Sit, Wren, I'm not that old." Tea is poured in cups that look like they'll crack in one's fingers, there are the Scones, and yeah, there were delegations from big companies trying to snooker Grandma to share the recipe, she sent them to mitch, there is also butter, jam and biscuits, and Wren squeezes her saucer in her fingers so that her knuckles are white.

They are drinking tea, and Wren is rabbiting on, about her classes, about new students, she is keeping the news of Bri's jovial discovery of blonde pleasures to herself for the moment when the aggro happens.

"And what about the lad that is on your mind, child?" Yeah. That is the aforementioned aggro. Bugger.

"Um… There is a person..." Vague, Wren, be vague!

"A qweer bit of talent I suppose, as you the young say these days?" No one says this, but Wren chooses between heart attack induced by Grandma's Glare and excruciating embarrassment and nods. Her cheeks are flaming. "What would you Mam say?" Bugger. Wren's thoughts exactly.

"She'd say too much of a looker." Wren feels like squirming under Grandma's studying look, the eyes of the same shape as hers tracing Wren's burning cheekbones. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Grandma Leary is basically Wren 3.0. Same features but attractive, lips red and curved even with age related loss of lipids, and then one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows crawls up. Oh poop. Wren's toast. "There are two of them." Shite. The eyebrow speeds up its ascending and cocks up. "And Bri is dating their nephew." Oh god. That made it worse. She really should have rehearsed it at home.

"Are you've a hole in yer head?" The accent is thicker, and the words roll out as terrifying eruption of magma out of a volcano. Wren imagines herself screaming 'The floor is lava!' and jumping away from the delicate old lady sitting in front of her in her walnut caquetoire. Grandma's eyes are narrowed, and Wren realises that 'Bri found a lad' smokescreen was as efficient as shirts on Durinson brothers.

"I can't help it!" She squeaks out, "They are both fit! And sound! And I like them!"

"Jeanie Mack, girl, is that what I brought you up for?"

"But Grandma, it is what you always told me about! For once they are… both!" The last word is a holler, Wren's going all in, and her Grandma that was rising in all her unimpressive five two freezes.

"Away from me?!" That is Grandma's equivalent of 'oh really?' and Wren nods.

"Yes," her tone is firm. "For the first time in my life I can say that I've met a man who is both. Just like you've always taught me to look for it, and I found it. Yes, I can say it now. _Upstairs for thinking, and downstairs for dancing._" The phrase heard from her grandmother hundreds of times rolls off Wren's tongue, with the familiar accent with "opstairs" and "tinking" and "dancing" with long 'a' inside._ "_Just like Grandpa was."

Grandma is still, but it is the stillness of king cobra, and then she gracefully sits back into her antique chair, and Wren exhales noisily. Grandma throws the look at the wall, with the large portrait on it, and Wren looks too. Yeah, Grandpa was all a bird can dream of.

"Both of them?" Wren nods still not believing that she might have diffused this doodlebug, and then Grandma asks suspiciously, "Are you craicing me?"

Maybe it is time to show her photos, Wren has only Frerin's, from the date, she has uploaded into her Mac and deleted from the phone all the daft ones, and kept only the one where the two of them stand smiling decorously into the camera. And she thinks she can be eloquent enough to describe the glorious deliciousness that is the older brother. Oh god. The images rush through her noggin. No, no, full retreat, not thinking of his torso, white shirt sliding off the shoulder, the tattoos and the black thick hair… Oh shite.

"That's the younger one. Several degrees in History and Linguistics. Took me to that French restaurant you always wanted to go to. Paid. Opened doors for me. Brought me roses. Bri likes him." That's thirty two words on one exhale of air. Good thing she is an expert in ujjayi breathing. "Walked me home. No funny business." Except from Wren herself. Belt it, conscience. Grandma gives a hardly noticeable nod. Point Frerin.

"The older one is the head of the family. Also took me to a French bistro. Also paid..." Well, technically… Shut up, noggin. "Opened doors for me. Danced with me." That gets a reaction from Grandma. There is a gleam of fire in the slanted amber eyes, and her eyes roam the photo of the younger Durinson. Point Thorin.

"What is the other one like?" Oh that will give Thorin Just-What-Wren's-Daddy-Issues-Want Durinson a fecking amount of points.

"Dark hair, blue eyes, wider, more hench. Quiet."

"Your daideó would never stop blathering, gave me headaches. Quiet is good." Wren suppresses a wistful sigh. Somehow… yeah, she has to agree, this kind of quiet is ace. Grandma places the mobile back into Wren's hand. "You need one more date with each at least," Grandma is all business, and Wren considers picking up her jaw from the back of Boru peacefully sleeping on her lap. What?!

"Um… Maimeó, I'm already acting like floozie, and to be honest I feel horrible about it."

"Do you know your answer, child?" Grandma's tone is cold, and damn her perceptiveness.

"I'm hoping one of them gives up. Or the next time I see them it just happens..."

"Is maith an scáthán súil charad," Grandma interrupts. _A friend's eye is a good mirror_. "What is Bri saying? She is a sound young one."

"She isn't taking sides. Said they both acted properly around her. Their nephew is a decent bloke as well." That is a clumsy attempt to lead the convo elsewhere. Epic fail follows of course.

"None of my concern at the moment, child. So, here is what you will do. Tomorrow you will talk to at least one of them, and the next one on the day after the latest. Ní bhíonn an rath ach mar a mbíonn an smacht." _There is no luck except where there is discipline. _Yeah, Grandma basically consists of these lovely morsels of wisdom. If only there was any choice. When Grandma says 'jump' one doesn't even ask 'where?' Wren sighs and accepts her destiny. "And do take the photo of the second one." Grandma leans back in her chair and licks her lips, lost in some mysterious thoughts. OK, OK, it's not that bad. Wren still managed to avoid mentioning that the brothers are 'haggis munchers,' unlike Wren who is all 'yes, please and thank you, especially in a kilt,' Grandma might not be that jolly about it.

"So what do your lads do, Wren?"

Oh poop.

* * *

><p>The next day Wren goes to the faire, armed with Grandma's no-option-offered command, and another of her gems. "Is uaigneach an níochán nach mbíonn léine ann." <em>It is a lonely washing that has no man's shirt in it. <em>It is a beautiful thought, but it's properly useless for Wren. Since once again there are no shirts involved.

Training swords clash again, this time there is no desire to end one's brother in laced into the smooth fluid movements, but Wren twitches.

"Aw sure look it!" Grandma draws out behind Wren, and did Wren forget to mention she is not coming here alone today? Yeah… Grandma Leary has just elegantly flown out of her car and is standing behind Wren in her perfect white linen dress, authentic Mongolian necklace, her white hair in a do that Wren couldn't even dream of. "That'd put me heart crossway in me if I didn't know it's all blarney." Wren decides to refrain from explaining to Grandma that all this might not be a 'blarney' and her own heart has been put crossway so properly that she thinks it might have gone through a smoothie maker.

Frerin lunges in a low blow, cuts Thorin under his feet, and the older Durinson lands on his arse, oh god the arse, he rolls deftly, the wide shoulders, sweaty, glistening in the sun, and oh Wren needs smelling salts right now, and then he jumps on his feet and notices her. Nothing changes in his face, Frerin is mid jump, Wren watches him as if in slow mo, she jerks her hand up and splays her fingers to warn Thorin, but his sword meets Frerin's, although he is not looking that way, and then in a perfectly performed swirl he sends his younger brother to smack into the fence.

Wren turns around to scan Grandma's reaction, but the old lady is nowhere to be seen. Hm… Sometimes Wren thinks that Grandma is a wee bit of a witch, she moves way too silently and knows bloody everything. Wren is still gawking around, when she feels a presence on another human being behind her.

"'Noon, lass." She turns and gives Dwalin MacFundin a plastic smile. "Yer fiend's inside." Right, Bri, safe haven! Wren propels inside the tent.

* * *

><p>Safe haven my arse. Grandma is studying Thorin's rings, at the same time charming the hell out of Balin. His dark eyes are sparkling suspiciously, and she tucks one of her snow white curls behind her ear in a slow delicate gesture. Classic move. She has beautiful long fingers, hands she looks after and treats with the bee wax mask she makes herself with sea buckthorn oil she presses once again herself, and no one yet managed to avoid looking at her elegant long neck afterwards. Bingo. One hyperventilating Scot, coming up. Grandma can add another notch onto her broomstick.<p>

"These are sound, pure solid," oh she is exaggerating her accent as well, Balin is kaputt. Wren's assumption is additionally confirmed by Balin's white beard fluffing itself up like peacock's tail. Yep. Dwalin is about to lose his closest relative to the Irish siren and consequent devastating heartbreak. After twenty years Grandma is still mourning her 'shíorghrá.' Never stops her from skewering another poor heart and enjoying the lament.

"Made by me cousin, Thorin," Balin is smiling squinting his gorgeous eyes, Grandma hums and picks up a ring and twirls it in her fingers. Grandma loves jewellery. One of her eyebrows twitches. Point Thorin. Wren is hiding behind a shelf with pointy daggery thingies and prays to all deities that the situation didn't escalate. Shite. As it was mentioned before, tough tits, Wrennie me darling.

Dwalin comes in the tent, he gives his primmed up and fuffed up brother a heavy glare, and then the Durinson brothers come in, pulling on tunics and chatting amicably. Meaning Frerin is chatting, and Thorin's face is 5.67% less stone like. God, Wren is absolutely not sure what makes her pant louder, Frerin's serratus anterior, or Thorin's thoracolumbar fascia. Frerin is still talking, when Thorin's eyes scan the tent.

There are two spotty teens drooling over a claymore on the wall, two middle aged ladies staring at the men, pretending to be very engaged into trying on bracelets, Balin is melting like a toffee forgotten on a sunny window sill, Grandma is trying earrings in front of the mirror, meaning she is showing off the proud set of her head to the white bearded Scot who hopefully has a healthy heart, and then Fili steps into the tent holding Bri's hand, who is smiling to him as if he just told her the answer to life, the Universe and everything. And judging by the googly eyes these two are making to each other, it's not 42. The lovebirds stop by the door because Bri has just buried her cute almond shaped and meticulously filed nails into Fili's forearm. Probably drawing blood. He is enduring it as a man and gives her a surprised look.

"And you also perform, do you not?" Grandma purrs her eyes on Thorin's creations, and then dark and Egg Laying makes a wide step to her and give her a freaking bow! When Wren was five, she stopped doubting that Grandma Leary was omnipotent and omnipresent. At the moment the old lady is slowly turning her head to the man she could only have seen if she had eyes hidden in that perfect coiffure of hers.

"Will we have the honour of seeing you among our audience?" What the sodding hell is that?! Wren is staring at the man who… A. Just said more words in one sentence she has ever gotten from him. B. Is bloody smiling. Politely and, mamma mia, charmingly! What the…?!

Frerin emits a surprised croak, and Grandma's slanted eyes shift at him. He freezes like the mentioned before bunny in Grandma's garden. When Grandpa was alive, he used his rifle. Grandma just gives the animals a disapproving look, and they commit seppuku with garden shears on their own.

"Not too bright is he?" She asks Thorin, and he gives her a lopsided smirk. Wren is about to faint from pure shock.

"He'll learn." Here we go again. Three words, one contraction. Grandma gives him an evaluating look over and then smiles. Wow. And the temperature in the tent didn't even drop below -120 degrees.

"Well, let's hear your singing then." Yeah, Grandma, let's not put any pressure on them of course.

Bri throws Wren a questioning look and receives a glassy eyed stare and then a shrug. Nothing can surprise Wren today anymore. And again, she doesn't learn right?


	15. Durinson Put the Kettle On

**A/N: The visuals/audials (is that even a word? :D) for the songs mentioned here can be found on Youtube. For **_**Rocky Road to Dublin **_**and **_**Red is the Rose **_**I suggest the band called The High Kings, **_**Galway Girl **_**is the homage to Gerry Butler's performance in **_**P.S. I Love You **_**:D**

* * *

><p>Mountain Thunder comes up on stage, Wren is sitting on the very edge of the bench, Grandma has thrown one leg over another and looks like Wren's dance professors did during the auditions. To think of it, that is exactly what's happening here.<p>

Thorin introduces the band, including the 'new addition to our crew and a gift for us, Miss Briallen Davis,' by then Fili and Kili are exchanging cheeky sideway glances, Frerin is giving Grandma his most radiant smile, that rascal, and Bri is oddly enough standing to the side. Wren feels like rubbing her eyes to make sure she is not hallucinating, because in her hands Wren's best friend is holding a god honest bodhrán. Wren wonders if they ran to another pavillion and borrowed it. Bri looks funny. As if she just took a large gulp of a fizzy drink and is trying to keep straight face. Which means something is coming.

After a low bow Thorin announces a song for 'the special guest to our show today,' and Bri gives the first try to her cipín. All four Durinsons take a step ahead, in perfect unison, firm stomp of their right feet, and the first line rolls. _In the merry month of June from me home I started/ Left the girls of Tuam so sad and broken hearted… _

The crowd starts clapping with the third line, Bri's wrist moves in perfect grace, after the first chorus the uncles step back, and let the nephews have fun. Not before the four of them perform another stomp with a deep exhaled 'huh' that makes Wren jump up on her bench. Grandma has a shadow of a benevolent smile hiding in the corners of her lips. Frerin presses the chanter to his lips, it's basically the pipe part of bagpipes, and Wren cowardly shifts her eyes away from the view of his lips on the mouthpiece, and Thorin proceeds to basically make love to a lute. Oh sodding hell… _One, two, three four, five, hunt the hare and turn her down/ the rocky road and all the way to Dublin/ Whack follol de rah!_

The four voices mix again, and Wren squirms. And then the chanter, the lute and Bri's bodhrán join each other, and the melody is clear, and honest, and Wren's heart flutters, and she quickly throws a look at her grandmother. No way in hell, she is not affected! Four kilt wearing men stuffing their Scottish pride where the sun don't shine and serenading her with the music of her ancestors. Well, OK, not so much the ancestors but D.K. Gavan, but he was from Galway just like Grandma!

At the line of "blood began to boil" accompanied with a fist shake Grandma finally smiles a bit. Let's face it those four fists, and a stomp, and oh god, oh god, oh god… "Temper I was losing" even gains Mountain Thunder boys a small nod from her. Wow, that is an equivalent of Grandma cheering and throwing knickers onto the stage. She has always had a weakness for men with a short fuse, Grandpa was a fan of a healthy dose of nose breaking and wigs on the green before his tea.

The song is over, the crowd is in shreds, Wren is uncomfortable. Mostly from the mischievous glint in Bri's eyes. Wren squeezes her knees, apparently that was only the beginning.

* * *

><p>And yep, she is right as always. Each of the brothers decides that a group serenading is lovely, but they want a shot at solo performance as well. Frerin goes first, with the classic move of <em>Galway Girl.<em> A linguist as he is, he obviously has noticed Grandma sounding like Peter O'Toole. Her 's' is indeed an almost 'sh,' and when Grandma would be unhappy with wee Wren, she'd be called 'girleen' which was the scariest thing in the world. Frerin's accent is perfect as well, but Wren knows it already. It might not quite fit their gig, but no one is complaining. The green eyes dart between the two Leary women, and at some moment Wren catches herself smiling widely to him. He is just so sunny, and light, and she is clapping with everyone else. The rest of Durinsons and Bri play, the crowd is singing along, and Wren notices Grandma's tiny foot in an elegant two coloured Oxford flat to rock with the music. Let's face it, no one can refuse the charm of Light and Lovely.

With _And I lost my heart to a Galway girl _he drops his voice, a bit of rasp into it, and has the nerve to wink to Grandma Leary! No, seriously! Wren isn't taking a piss! He just winked to her! To Grandma Leary! The Greatest Calamity of Our Age Grandma Leary, who has no weeds in her garden because they do not dare to show their heads out of the ground! The next moment Wren thinks she will have an apoplexy. As Frerin No-Personal-Boundaries Durinson receives a flamboyant air kiss from the Galway girl he is giving his best grin to! Wren feels like she had too much tea with a hatter and a bunny and fell into the world where up is down! How else can all this madness be explained?!

To top his brother's success, in Wren's opinion, Thorin has only one choice. Strip tease. Otherwise, no way in hell he can impress Grandma more than Frerin.

Wren is wrong as always. Why is she even trying? Although in this case she is not that much off, he does go full monty baring himself, but it is of emotional kind, not clothes ripping one, though she probably would have felt more comfortable if he suddenly was standing in front of them starkers.

_Red is the Rose. _Not much more needs to be said.

_Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass/ Come over the hills to your darling… _No music, no drums, no clapping from the crowd. Most probably don't even breathe. His low triple chocolate fudge voice is pouring without effort. _And I'll be your true love forever. _A girl sitting to Wren's left is a wee bit pale. Wren sympathises completely. The full frontal assault of the intensity that he normally hides behind his 'monument of Robert Bruce in Sterling' exterior is hard to endure. She's been there. It landed her on a kitchen table, in a bra and unzipped denim. Not thinking about it right now. Although when he opens his bright blue eyes and looks at her, that is exactly what she is thinking about. And that he will have beautiful babies. Bugger.

_'Tis all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass/ That my heart is breaking forever. _The other three join him for the chorus, and it allows the crowd to shake off the spell. There is cheering, clapping, but most women still look like they've been through Nam just now. Hands are clammy and shaking, and Wren throws Grandma an askew look. Yep, that is the first and probably last time in her life that Wren sees her maimeó definitely and officially… dazed. And then there is an almost melancholic wistfulness in Grandma's eyes, and Wren throws arms around her grandmother's neck. They embrace tightly, and Grandma is patting Wren's back gently. No words are required, Wren knows Grandma is thinking about her husband.

"I'm grand, child, don't worry." Wren moves a bit away and gives the other woman a soft smile. "Let's go for a walk." The band continues to play but the Leary women carefully leave their spots, Wren throws Bri a small supporting wave, and receives an understanding nod in return.

* * *

><p>They are sitting on a bench near a candied apple vendour, and Wren throws a glare towards the chick that works there. It might not be the same, but still… OK, Wren is overreacting, it's definitely not the one Frerin casually knobbed in that very tent. Considering a band on her hand, and baby in a sling. Seriously, there is something wrong with Wren's noggin these days.<p>

"So, I say take the younger one," Grandma's voice is lazy, she is studying a tent with boots and horse harnesses across from them.

"What?! But… but… but… Thorin!" Wren has been reduced to one word statements. Her eyes are probably as round as Grandma's stylish Miu Miu sunglasses, $390 by the way. "Eyes! Hair! But… Grandpa! And the song!.."

"Are you choosing a man for me or yourself?" That is sarcasm, with as much bite to it as in Grandma's Beer Chili. Meaning your eyebrows will be singed if you are closer than a foot to it.

"Myself," squeak, squeak. Oh might as well admit it, Wren is in shreds.

"Then take the older one." What?! What?!... But!..

"You just said the younger one!" Wren starts gulping air like a fish already in the fisherman's bucket.

"The older one is too much of a looker though." Grandma pensively bites her apple. "Take the younger one."

"Grandma, are you craicing me?! A. Stop changing your answer, and B. The younger one is prettier!"

"Are you choosing a husband by the looks now, child?" Grandma's voice is warning, but there is laughter rolling underneath. She has Wren exactly where she wants her, and she will spin her and will dunk her exactly into what she wants. She has been doing it to Wren for years, Wren might as well just submit and try not to pee herself through this roller coaster ride.

"I am not choosing a husband at all! Who said husband?! I went to one date with each. It's just… dating." One of the perfectly shaped eyebrows is hiked up, and Wren squirms. Grandma sets her apple aside and turns on the bench, facing Wren. Oh shite.

"Wren, is leor don dreoilín a nead." _A wren only has need for its nest. _"With that Texan of yours you didn't even tell me he existed till the two of you were living together." Wren blushes. It's true, and apparently she is still not forgiven for it. Well, technically she sort of would crash at his place. Seven days a week. But she still lived with Bri! Common! What is she had a toothbrush at his place? And all her stuff? Technically she still was Bri's flatmate! Her name was on the tenant agreement! "And here there are two of them, and you drag me to have a look and help you choose." Seriously?! She didn't even ask whether Wren wanted her here. Wren is wisely keeping her gob shut regarding this. She is not suicidal. "So, tell me child, do you just want a man or you want one of them and doubt your choice?"

Oh… Wren has opened her mouth during the first half of the question and closed it with a loud clank of teeth during the second. Oh… Bollocks. That is a proper question, isn't it? And the proper answer to it, she doesn't need a man. Proper answer to it, she needs one of the Durinson brothers. And Grandma obviously doesn't need her answer, since she reads Wren like one of the cookbooks she wrote, published and sold half a million copies of.

"So, I say, you know you want him, and you want him go deo." Wren gulps. 'Forever' sounds a bit terrifying, but yeah… "So, I say, it's the older one. He is a looker, will make beautiful chlann clainne for me. It's about time I hold a blue eyed bairn in my arms. And those ebony curls..." Grandma gives out a wistful sigh, obviously enjoying Wren's agony. And didn't they just cover the question of looks? And as a side note, Wren has properly considered Thorin's babies on her own, thank you very much, no encouragement required.

"Frerin is a looker too." And green eyed red haired babies are beautiful too! Wren looked them up on Pinterest. Very nice indeed. Oh god, where is her life going?!

"Yes, he is. The same gruaig rua, the same hair like your Da. But isn't it what you are afraid of? That he is like your Da?" Damn her perceptiveness.

"Yes!.. No!... I don't know..." Kill Wren now.

"So, it's the younger one then." Oh sod it, she is doing it again! "He will be a sound husband for you. Didn't you tell me you think he has serious intentions regarding you?"

"Yes!.. No!.. I don't know!" Wren groans, folds in two and hides her face into her knees. "Why would he be a sound husband for me?"

"Aahhh, correct question finally," Grandma takes a big bite from her apple, no doubt to end Wren in by making her wait indefinitely, and chews slowly. "He is easy. Will make you laugh. Cute." That is the Irish 'cute,' that much Wren understands, meaning 'clever.' He is, isn't he?

"Thorin is cute too," she offers a muffled comment from her skirt.

"Yes, he is," Grandma nods and chuckles. "And you know it how?.. Didn't you say he didn't talk?" Oh god, it's getting worse.

"Yes!.. No!... I don't know..." Wren is gently banging her forehead to her knees.

"So, as I see it, child, you know your answer, you are just blinded by the possibility of the other one. Usually a woman has one man to consider, you see him, if you want him you take him. Men decide little," Grandma is all nonchalance, and Wren sighs. Maybe if one is as wicked as Grandma, they can choose themselves. Wren feels like she is the rope in a game of tug of war. "A man is made of flaws, we learn to disregard them. But you can always say the second one doesn't have them. But this is not how the world works, and this is not how you think. You are Leary, we Leary women are made of different dough. You choose one, and you accept all of him. They take our name, we give them the world. And you know I'm right."

Yeah, it's easy for her to say. But at the moment Wren can choose either with equal success. Take him and accept him, and reap the fruit. Meaning lots of shag, and Miss Fanny is all for it, and it might even work out very well, and yeah, maybe she did look into Scottish wedding traditions, after all no one ever knows, right? But there is just this little doubt… And the other one is so ace too!.. Oh bugger.

"And I was asked out by that fine thing in the tent," Grandma's tone is light and properly noncommittal, and Wren makes a shocked semi squeak, feeling very, very dizzy. What?! Since when does Grandma use the words 'fine thing?' And in what universe does 'fine thing' apply to the respectable white bearded Balin MacFundin?! "His brother was charming, but I think I'll go with the younger one."

What. The. Sodding. Sod?!

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The next chapter is ****penultimate****, my lovelies. The end is nigh, and one of the Durinsons is getting a red card while another one gets green light ;)**

**There will be ****two epilogues****, one for each of the brothers posted in **_**We Are Scattered Through Time and Space**_**, mostly for rating considerations. Yeah, pretty much all smut... :D Did I get your interest, you naughty ones? ;)**


	16. Girls and Boys Come Out to Sing

Wren is desperate. There is only one thing to do. She makes a phone call.

"Thea, I need your help," Wren is pressing a mobile to her ear. Judging by the noises on the other end her beloved mental friend from Blackpool is either at a very vigorous beach party or in a slaughterhouse, considering the amount of squealing.

"I'm all yours, love, what can I do you for?" Wren can clearly imagine the wiggling eyebrows.

"I have two blokes and can't choose between them." Thea is loudly demanding a martini at the background.

"Good on you, mate," Thea sounds sincerely approving. Thea is basically Captain Jack Harkness from _Doctor Who_, she uses his motto, slightly brutalising it, 'So many bums, so little time.' "Give me the numbers, love."

"Thea, your evaluation charts don't work here. They are both off the scale." There is sudden silence around Thea, Wren realises she got her friend's attention and even managed to pull her away from a do. That is an almost impossible achievement.

"Seriously? How off the charts are we talking about?"

"Higher than Apollo 13 went." Thea makes a soft moan like sound. "Where are you now?"

"Couple States to your left. I lost track with the whole time difference and endless parties," Thea fakes Septic accent. "Howdy!"

"Are you in Texas? Are there many cowboy hats around you?"

"Lovie, I go to beach and pool parties, they are all dressed in speedos. Not that I mind," Wren imagines the feral gleam in Thea's eyes. "No hats, lots of cocks." Here we go, Thea Martin at her best.

"Next week we all go to a karaoke bar, it's their nephew's birthday, and I need to leave that bloody do with one of them. And I think a Thea-test is in order."

"Oh, dearie, I'm all yours. I'll get a ticket right now. But did you just say nephew?"

"Off the table, Thea. Property of Briallen Davis." Wren can hear Thea's theatrical gasp.

"My darling, today's the day of surprises! First you tell me that Wrennie Leary, my prim and proper birdie is tangled between two blokes, and then it turns out our perky little totty is in the same boat. What the hell is running in the veins of that family? Liquid Viagra?"

"Come and see for yourself," Wren sing-songs, but then a thought comes. She quickly flips through her phone and finds the photo of Frerin. She took it during their date, he was obviously hardly shy about it and started making faces and taking bodybuilder's poses, she has about twenty of them now. Not a single one of Thorin, but Thea will be convinced.

The expression Thea uses upon receiving the photo cannot be reproduced here due to ratings considerations. And then she adds couple more.

"Are you telling me there are two of them?!" Wren hums in confirmation. "Are you having me in? Two of… this? Because I assume if the other one were any worse, you'd be currently riding this one and not ringing me up." Ouch. Graphic. But true.

"The older one is darker and taller. And wider. And has grey in his hair."

"Oh Wrennie, it's like they asked you when they were making him. Bugger, I'm still ogling this one. How much of this have you sampled?"

"Three snogging sessions," Wren's cheekbones are burning.

"And the other one?"

"Just two. But the second one was on a kitchen table in a closed restaurant." Thea is silent. She is obviously digesting.

"Blimey, Wrennie, my dear, I'll be at your place by the first plane." They chat for some more, and Wren hangs up.

"Bri-i-i-i-i-i!" Wren yells to her friend who is currently hoola hooping in the living room. "We are having a house guest!"

"Whichen? Dark 'n' Dangerous or Light 'n' Lively?" Wren groans and falls back on her bed pressing a pillow to her face. If only she knew.

* * *

><p>Fili's birthday party is in <em>Harmony, <em>the most popular karaoke club in town, and Wren feels like she is dressing up for a battle. Thea, who despite her threats to grab the nearest flight only arrived last night, is lounging on Wren's bed. She is already dressed, although in some states what she is wearing would be considered an undergarment. Thea never jokes with the 'little' component in little black dress. She is five ten, has the longest legs one has seen since Jennifer Flavin retired from her modeling career, her luscious chestnut waves are scattered on Wren's pillow, and according to Thea, and Wren believes her wholeheartedly, nothing can mess them up. Knowing the vigorous activities Thea tends to indulge, it's a bloody miracle. She has the cleavage that enters the room before her. Two men in history of ever have passed the Thea-test. Wren's long time boyfriend Auggie and Wren's older brother Liam, but he is literally visually impaired.

"Wrennie, in this dress I'm wondering if I should offer you to get back together," Thea is taking a piss of course, but Wren smiles to her in the mirror gratefully.

"After tonight, you won't want anything to do with me," and Wren will hopefully have a boyfriend. She twirls and gives her backless emerald green sequin mini dress one last look. She is wearing silver strappy sandals with bows on her ankles and dangly earrings to match. The hair is pinned, and she is ready for a barney. Because there will be barney.

Bri bounces in the room, a vision in purple, and Thea emits an approving "yum." Bri, already familiar with Thea's robust sexuality, and it took her only couple years to believe that Thea was harmless, gives them a twirl. The one strap frilly dress is perfect for her curves, the sparkly embroidered ribbon goes around the shoulder and under the bust, and Wren knows a certain blonde hunk who will properly appreciate the way the tulle decorates the hips. The matching suede flats make Thea hum. She rolls on her stomach and points at them.

"I'd normally say fancy up your pins, but that's wicked."

"Ready to get crackin'?" Bri is bobbing on her cute shoes, and Wren takes a deep breath in stabilizing her poor psyche. "Oh hush, Wren, ain't nobody gonna eat you alive there."

"Well..." Thea is obviously going for an innuendo built on the connotations of the word 'eat.' Thea can come up with at least five on the spot.

"Belt it, Martin," Wren decisively stuffs her lipstick in a silver silk clutch and turns to her friends. "Ladies? It's show time."

* * *

><p>The club is busting, there are several stages, there is a dance floor, and the party is strictly guest list and somehow the whole town is there. Knowing the Durinson charm, that's not surprising. The blokes are bloody Pied Pipers.<p>

Fili is a whirlpool of blonde curls and warm hugs, and all of them are for Bri. Wren receives a cordial wide smile, and she wonders if she should have taken sunglasses, it is bloody blinding, and Thea gets a quick handshake, a smile, and he is already leading Bri away, arm tight around her shoulders. She is tucked under it, and there is even more bounce to her step.

"What the sodding sod was that?" Thea's voice is a low menacing growl, and Wren giggles.

"That, my dear, is the Durinson quality."

"No way in hell anyone is that quality, my darling," Thea's opulent bosom is heaving in righteous indignation, "It's like I am not even here!" The following lines are also emitted here for ratings considerations. Thea then chokes on her tirade when Frerin shows up around a corner balancing a tray of shots. A waitress is mincing after him trying to get her job back.

"But they are heavy, love, go back, rest your feet. Wren!" He suddenly looks like it's actually _his _birthday, and it's Christmas and St. Andrew's Day at the same time. He is now carrying the tray on the fingers of one hand, the second arm goes around her waist, he pulls her up and places a firm kiss on her cheek. And then his eyes fall on Thea. Wren is still dangling in the warm ring of his hug, attentively watching his face.

"Losh! Michty me! I'm being a chauvinistic pig here, but you are a baw lass, hen!" Fili pops out from the room, grabs the tray, while Frerin manages to arrange Wren under his arm. By the way Wren hates the possessiveness in this gesture, but for now she just lets him. "Do you like brawny men with shaved heads and temper issues?" That makes Wren giggle. Not from image of Dwalin and Thea, that she can easily imagine, but from Thea's jaw slowly travelling towards her glorious tits. "Well, walcome, me darlins." He is leading Wren in just like Fili did Bri just a few seconds before, and she looks back to see Thea making some strange signs with all her ten digits. Wren assumes that is Thea expressing shock and questions about the second brother. As uncomfortable as Wren is from the prospect of both of them in one room, she can't wait for Thea's reaction.

It doesn't disappoint. Thorin is sitting in the leather armchair, one ankle on the other knee. Just like his brother he is wearing perfectly cut black trousers, but while Frerin makes Wren's fanny very, very disturbed by his white shirt and a charcoal waistcoat, and especially with his rolled up sleeves, Thorin is dressed in a perfect black shirt, couple buttons open, and it's simple and to the point. The point is that she is toast. She ponders jumping away from Frerin's possessive arm but then she decides she is too mature of an adult for that.

Thea isn't. She freezes in the doors and is scanning the private lounge they are occupying. Thorin in the armchair, Fili and Bri cuddled like two cats in a rainy day on the sofa, Balin laughing with Dwalin by the wall, and yes, Thea's eyes linger on Dwalin's deltoid muscles under a grey shirt, Kil is with that long legged brunette of his again, Wren slightly wrinkles her nose to that, whole bunch of familiar faces from the faire, and Wren never forgets a face, and Thea's peepers run and pick and choose, and after all that she points at Thorin with her eyes. Wren admires her determination. If Frerin, as endlessly shocking as it was by the way, passed the Thea-test, Thorin will ace it.

And just as by the script, he gets up since there are people with fannies coming in, bloody manners of his, and Thea scans all six feet five of delicious muscle tissue, and he smiles to her politely. Pretty much the way he'd greet an old lady or a child. Probably he'd be more cordial with a child. Wren saw him with children. She really doesn't need to think about him with children. Bugger.

Wren carefully untangles from under Frerin's warm arm and pulls Thea after her on the empty sofa. Thea turns to her and breathes out one word, 'how?' Wren shrugs meaning 'beats me.' Thea is pouting, Wren is pondering a drink. She is intolerant, but if she is unconscious she won't have to address the tension quickly growing in the room. The first round of drinks is up, and Wren sips her water. Fili announces that the second shots are to be drunk without a pause, he is the birthday boy, everyone complies. Wren saw the first one go down Frerin's throat, he was sitting closer, and he saluted her, so she watched his throat move. The second one makes Thorin's Adam's apple bob, and she is very hot.

Party time, my arse.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Thea gets up and sashays to the mic. Wren leans back on the sofa and prepares to enjoy the show. Thea is a singer, mostly jazz. When Wren's desperate phone call reached her, she was touring the States, and now everyone will be subjected to the majestic sensuality that is Thea's voice.<p>

Her choice doesn't disappoint. Thelma Houston's _Don't leave Me This Way. _Thea's voice is born behind the triple D tits, it comes from the core, with a slight detour in her feminine parts. It is pure sex. Just like her chest area, her sass makes her Bri's twin separated at birth. Even her _Baby, please, don't leave me_ sounds like a taunt. She is also amazingly coordinated for her height, Wren met her in a pilates class. They had a little something, and while Thea definitely butters her toast on both sides, for Wren it turned out to be a phase. No one refuses Thea after all. Except apparently the Durinson boys. Bugger. That would have been so much easier if one of them drooled and started disregarding Wren. No bloody luck.

_Baby, my heart is full of love and desire for you!.._ There is one thing that makes Thea singing the eighth wonder of the world. She just loves it. She sings when she is sad, she sings when she is happy, in a shower, in shops, in cafe, her whole body is dancing and her shoulders move in the way that makes Wren question her sexuality every bloody time. _Come and satisfy this need in me!.._

* * *

><p>"Well hell, how'm I supposed to follow an act like that?" Bri is clearly uncomfortable to sing after Thea, Queen Latifah would be, but Thea is the first to laugh and clap her hands to cheer Bri up. Wren hears Frerin's "You go, girl" and Thorin's enthusiastic applause, and Bri seems to be finding her footing. Fili's loud cheering probably helps as well. "So, I decided to do an homage for the birthday boy. Here's hoping I don't muck it up too bad. If I do, it may be considered justifiable grounds for separation." After another bout of polite laughter, Bri puts on her best Marilyn Monroe pout, and starts a breathy rendition of <em>Happy Birthday. <em>Wren is no expert but for her it sounds almost pitch perfect to the infamous serenade so many years ago. Except Bri is more sober. Hopefully.

Anyone watching Fili can see it is definitely working for him. His eyes are intense, and it looks as if he is taking measurements of Bri's round parts with his eyes. Thea pokes Wren with an elbow under her ribs and points at Fili's hand on the rest of his armchair with her eyes. It is fisted so tightly that the knuckles are white. Thea's eyes are shining, she adores sexual tension. When Bri bends forward, and surely she knows the power of the double D's, and blows him a kiss, Wren wonders whether that might have been a wee bit too much.

No one minds the snogfest. It's his birthday and apparently the Durinsons are in general all for public display, since even Thorin I-Don't-Date Grouchy Durinson started his association with Wren by bending her backwards and… Wren doesn't remember much afterwards, but there was a lot of display, and it was properly public, there were loud comments from the audience. These two could care less about the audience of their entanglement of limbs. Neither Bri, nor Fili seem to mind the catcalls and hoots. Eyes locked on each other, they are happy in their own little world for a moment. Or two. Or twenty. Damn, do they have gills?

The snogfest is OK, but Wren also knows Bri. They haven't shagged yet. And now her Norma Jeane Mortensen feat might land her straight in Fili's bed. She just showed him what a tigress she is, no way he is passing the chance to name his birthday gift. Something tells Wren, that is exactly Bri's plan.

Wren envies Bri. One bloke, loins on fire, go for it! What is she to do with her aggro? And there is no point to ask Bri, she is too sucked into her love life at the moment. Uhem. Literally. And Thea is no help either. She will answer with a purry 'ménage à trois,' and as prim and proper as Wren is generally considered, she has thought of it too. Damn her imagination.

Thorin gets up to go for another round of drinks and passing her, he brushes the tips of his fingers at her nape over the back of the sofa. All deities help her, how does he do it? Always the perfect gesture! Frerin is giving her a look over the rim of his glass, the eyes are green and the crinkles in the corners make her squirm on her spot. She might as well just end herself with her heel. It will be less painful than the hysterical squawking in her noggin that's been going on since the moment she entered the room.


	17. Bingo Was His Name-O

Frerin is up on the stage first out of the two, and Wren squeezes her knees preparing for an assault. She knows nothing, but Bri explained to her that the Durinsons were professional level singers. Bri is rather surprised they haven't been picked up by a label. "Pretty much, as talented as them boys are, it's like an auditory orgasm," was her final proclamation. That Wren can concur. And not just auditory...

He is clicking through fifties in the playlists, Wren knows Davis Jr. and Dino, her stepfather is fond of the Rat Pack, and it was once said that out of his 130 pounds Sinatra was 30 pounds of voice, and 100 pounds of sex. She expects something like _Besame Mucho _or _Witchcraft_, something cheeky and sexy, and he chooses a song and steps ahead.

The first notes are unfamiliar, but Wren can hardly recognize _Old McDonald _on the best of days, and he picks up the mic and closes his eyes.

_All of me… Why not take all of me? Can't you see? I'm no good without you… _This is no brogue, this is no murmur, or sexy serenading. It is sincere and open, and the green eyes meet hers. And it feels as if he is actually asking 'why not?' Wren has no answer for him. _You took the part that once was my heart, so why not? Why not take all of me?_He looks almost melancholic, and as if slightly taking a mickey out of himself for soppiness, and Bri softly gasps to Wren's right. The voice slips into rasp once, over the _I'm just a mess without you, _and then back to the soft conversation that he is leading with her. There is some sort of a trombone solo, and he is smiling to her through it, and then the voice is pouring again. No effort, no tension, just as if talking to her, and there is a lump in her throat. _How can I get along without you?_

_All of me! Common, get all of me! _She is consequently offered lips and arms that he will never use again, and bloody hell, that doesn't sound like it is someone else's words, it's just him asking her 'why not?'

The song ends, and he puts the mic down and walks off the stage. Wren is not the only one who forgets to clap, but then Bri, always the considerate one, hoots and the audience wakes up. Cheering and applauses, and Wren is greedily drinking her Ginger Ale. He is already smiling his usual smug grin, Dwalin claps his shoulder, and Wren can feel her hands shake. That is as simple as eggs. She knows what she is offered, and she knows she has to give her answer. But what is it?..

* * *

><p>Her noggin is foggy, she hardly notices a duet between Kili and Thea, they are like oil and water, and somehow it makes sense, but Wren is twirling her empty glass in her fingers. Bri comes up the stage, and Wren shakes off her stupour and claps after Bri's <em>Run To You <em>by Roxette requested by the birthday boy.

OK, to summarize, her thing with Frerin from the start was that she wasn't taking him seriously, and that is exactly what he is asking her to do. And damn his offer. It is easy to accept, and they fit, and they talk, and he is warm and sunny, and so, so bloody fit, and...

She wakes up from her internal equivalent of running in circles and thrashing like a freshly beheaded chicken, she has no idea, that's what Nana would always say, when Bri plops on the sofa near her and places her head on Wren's shoulder.

"Alright, sugarplum?" Wren suddenly feels that if she talks she'll bawl. She looks at her friend, and it's Bri. Bri has seen Wren through so much that no words are needed. "Just one step, shug. It'll hurt somethin' fierce, but after that it's a done deal," Bri softly whispers and rubs Wren's upper arm discreetly. Wren nods, chewing at her bottom lip. Seriously, why does she feel like crying?

* * *

><p>Thorin walks up onto the stage, and the already familiar reaction makes Wren hold her breath and fist her hands. The wide shoulders, the waist, the confident precise movements, the strut… Wren has eaten her lipstick by now, and she really should stop nibbling on her lip. She'll draw blood. Her whole body is buzzing, but it always does when there is less that half a mile between them. But one can't build everything on a shag, yeah? She can literally count the number of words he said to her, and does he even know anything about her?<p>

He flicks the mic, and the soft notes start. She vaguely remembers this one, something from her childhood, something her Mam used to play all the time, but she can't place the lyrics.

While his brother's voice is a pleasure and a thrill, and you sort of expect it based on what his talking does to your fanny, this one is so quiet that she manages to forget what will most likely happen when he starts to sing. It is velvet, molasses, and all other cliches, and he is taking his time, she seems to recall the song to be faster. He pushes one hand in the trousers pocket, and the mic is near his soft lips.

_I've got you under my skin, I've got you deep in the heart of me… _

There is a lot of the voice, there is almost too much of it, and he makes a good use of it. _I have tried so not to give, I said to myself, "This affair will never go so well..." _This time Bri doesn't gasp, she sinks her nails into Wren's forearm, and Wren pulls it from under Bri's suddenly clammy hands. Apparently even Bri My-Head-And-Other Vital-Organs-Are-Full-Of-Fili Davis is affected. Even more apparent is now the fact that previously Dark and Egg Laying was just keeping his charm to himself. Unleashing it feels almost unfair. What are they all now to do with all this liquid sex sloshing in the room? Wren is physically uncomfortable from it, and then he cocks one brow, the glacial eyes on her, _But why should I resist, when, darling, I know so well, I've got you under my skin? _OK, this 'darling' in the dirtiest talk she has ever heard in her bloody life! And she has heard some!

And then it all comes together, and all puzzle pieces finally fit together.

Wren Elizabeth Einin Leary is a massive idiot.

Because once again she doesn't hear the man behind the sex.

_So deep in my heart that you are really part of me… _She asked him why he hadn't asked her out from the start, and he said she was too young. _Despite of the little voice that comes in the night and repeats and repeats in my ear, "Don't you know, you fool? You never can win..." _He said he didn't date and never competed with his brother, and yet she was there, at that restaurant, eating the salads he had prepared in advance and carefully served on matching plates and bowls. There is a soft small smile in the corners of his lips, and she knows they are warm and tender, and she remembers them brush her temple.

_'Cause I've got you, I've got you, I've got you under my skin…_

The song is done, everyone is cheering and applauding, and Wren is staring ahead with unseeing eyes. And then she blinks and returns to reality. Bri is being actively snogged while on Fili's lap, and Wren assumes that Blonde and Sunny decided Bri required detoxification from Thorin's singing. Kili is climbing on the stage to choose a song for Fili, there is some jolly discussion between him and couple blokes with drinks in their hands, and Fili nuzzles Bri's soft curls and grudgingly stands up and gets pulled on the stage.

Wren sharply exhales, climbs out of the sofa and decisively marches to the corner where two Durinsons and two MacFundins are amicably chatting pouring drinks. The first notes of Fili's _Time in a Bottle_ start, and Wren makes a firm step ahead, grabs the shirt on the wide muscular chest and with conviction kisses the man she now knows she is in love with.

* * *

><p>If someone was telling you this story and stopped here, would you kill them? Yeah, precisely.<p>

He opens his eyes after a few delicious moments and looks down at her. She can't stop smiling, and he guffaws.

"Awright, mo chridhe?" She is decisively very much alright, and 'my heart' moniker makes her internally squeal and she can clearly imagine turning into a puddle of adoration on the floor.

"Yes, Thorin, I am now."

He grabs her hand and quickly marches out of the room. She has to make twice as many steps, seriously do these legs go on forever? On the way she passes Fili who is frozen on the stage and has already missed two lines. He is obviously recovering already, since he is blinking, and she blows him a kiss. Dark and Soon-To-Be-Ravished speeds up, she is not sure her feet touch the floor anymore, she notices Thea giving her a wink, and Wren sends loudly laughing Bri a jolly goodbye wave, and they are outside.

* * *

><p>It honestly is very simple. She entered that bloody tent, and he threw her a look over his shoulder. She of course knew it from the start, but seriously, anyone would be bricking and doubting when faced with… this, yeah? It's like when you are already at the open door of Cessna 182, your skydiving instructor gives you a thumb up, and you need to make that one big step into the abyss, and you have this one last twinge of doubt. But sodding hell, of course Wren jumps! She always does!<p>

It is bloody scary, it is not going to be easy, and sometimes she will think back at the comfort and warmth and safety of the plane, but she will never regret because she knows this is as right as bloody rain.

* * *

><p>In any other case she'd probably have a spiel prepared but she just lets him do all the talking. Which consists of the best kiss she's ever had in her life. Yeah, but she gets it. He is not that hard to twig, one just needs to find the approach. And judging by the chest heaving under her hand, and the low rumbling that sounds suspiciously like purring of a giant cat, she has chosen the right communication media. He bends down and picks her up under her bum, he is absolutely right, that is much easier, her legs go around his waist, and they get honked at by a passing car. Which interestingly enough doesn't seem to phase him out in the slightest. All or nothing type of a bloke, you know?<p>

While she is burying one hand in his luscious hair, and she has extensive plans for it by the way, she is clenching her clutch in the other one.

"I kept your ring, it's in my bag, I carry it with me," she exhales, she sounds breathy, she feels no less so, he is kissing her ear. He hums into her skin, she wonders if she overestimated the romantic-ness of her gesture, and he mumbles.

"I'll resize it for you." Apparently she didn't. Ace.

"Can we go… somewhere? Couple more… Oh god… minutes of this..." He makes a few steps, and she is pressed into a wall. Wow. Just wow. "Thorin, we are in the middle of the street! And seriously, couple more minutes… and I'll combust..."

"That's the plan." Oh dear… He moves back and looks at her. There is another honk from a passing Chevy, and she starts laughing. She is so happy it's scary! He is smiling too, and she's never seen _this _smile. The blue irises are almost hiding behind the fluffy black lashes, the white teeth gleaming, and she is so in love with him! She's planning to work very hard on maintaining this facial expression on his clock permanently.

Still holding her under the bum, and this time on one palm, and seriously, she still almost fits, and it's so hot that she slightly rubs at him, he gives her a fake warning stare while digging in the pocket of his trousers. And that is either a shillelagh in his pocket, or he is that glad to see her. He fishes out a plastic card that turns out to be a hotel key. Presuming much? She raises one brow, she knows hers is less impressive than his, but he gets the meaning.

"I was hoping." Yeah, that pretty much sums it up, doesn't it? She stuffs the card in her clutch, he is nibbling on her earlobe, and she twists from under his mouth.

"We need a cab, you can't carry me all the way." Another eyebrow twitch, and she snorts. Apparently, she is very good at deciphering his Thorinish tongue. Ace. "Okay, you quite obviously are capable of it, but I don't want you to carry me all the way. I want to behave inappropriately on the back seat." He guffaws again and steps to the road waving his long arm, while she is still comfortably nested on his other hand. Well, honestly, not the most inconvenient position. And the neck is right there, at her disposal. She gives it a lick, he makes a rumbly noise, and looks at her from the corner of his eye.

"No one will stop," his tone is warning and pleased at the same time. She snorts. Four words? Really? She is starting to think she's fine with even less. He is honestly like an open book. Let's face it, Medusa and Black Bolt have always been her favourite of the Marvel heroes. She pops a button on his shirt and sticks her nose inside. Yeah, Davidoff Adventure. And Thorin. Ohhh, yum. He carefully places her on her feet, she might be whining from disappointment. A cab stops, and he stuffs her onto the back seat. Her previously expressed desire is fulfilled, their behaviour ends up costing him the tip twice as large as the toll, and he is climbing out of the cab pulling her after him.

Considering the speed with which he rushes through the lobby, the concierge manages only 'goo' out of his 'good evening, sir, welcome to Four Seasons.' Wren has given up on walking, she feels like she is parasailing into the room, and here we go.

He pushes her inside and kicks the door closed after him. She laughs throatily and runs to the bedroom shaking the sandals on her way. He lunges after her, growling, large scorching palms encircle her waist, and…

Oh, what? Well, my darlings, it's a T rated fic. So, that's all, folks.

THE END

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Remember, there will be two M rated epilogues, one per brother, in **_**We Are Scattered Through Time and Space**_** and then one T rated epilogue here to wrap up the story! :D **

**A/N#2: Well, actually two chapters per brother, I am getting carried away with the smut ;) **

**Also, didn't someone ask for Grandma Leary's date description? And what if Thea wants Dwalin too..? Hm… :D I will give it a thought and let me know if you want any other storylines wrapped up.**


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